


New Year. New Me.

by Ravenclaw_Rose715



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Christmas, Draco just has issues, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hermione Has Abandonment Issues, Humor, New Year's Eve, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, PTSD and trauma, Slow Burn, Smut, romcom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenclaw_Rose715/pseuds/Ravenclaw_Rose715
Summary: Draco Malfoy has one objective for the NYE. Get so catatonically plastered that he will for a brief moment in time forget the woes of being the sole male heir to the Malfoy family.Hermione Granger has her New Year resolutions too. But they are currently being circumvented for the holiday season by a certain Weasley who is apparently incapable of keeping his foot out of his mouth or his head out of his own arse.Christmas time is already difficult enough in having to force cheer and tolerate being in the same room as your relatives and loved ones. But it becomes even trickier when two childhood enemies collide by happenstance. Or does it actually end up making things just that little bit easier?Whichever it is. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy certainly make things complicated.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 91
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've read a number of fics that allude to the great NYE Ball hosted by the Malfoy family and I honestly have no idea if it's canon or if some fanfic writer came up with it first but consider this little story my tribute to the trope. 
> 
> To anyone out there reading, I hope you are happy, safe and enjoying the festive season, and if not I hope this story at leasts gives you something to laugh about.
> 
> Story will be updated before the end of 2020.

_December 31st, 1999 ___

____

____

Being thrown out of the Leaky Cauldron on your arse was not, strictly speaking, a part of the New Year’s tradition for a Malfoy man. The annual New Year’s Eve Ball at Malfoy Manor was usually a thoroughly dignified affair.

Champagne in crystal flutes. Floating trays of hors d’oeuvres. Socially obligatory ballroom dancing. Followed by cigars and Firewhisky in Father’s study till quarter to midnight when all the congregated men vacated to the main hall for speeches. Then after watching an ostentatious fireworks display that the elves always took particular pride in from the terrace it was time to retire to bed.

He’d been attending them since he was old enough to walk on his own two feet. Up until very recently, it was an event he boasted of amongst his peers. And as of tonight it was a party he would make certain to never have to attend again.

Right now however, Draco was working on starting a new tradition.

“Are there no more decent establishments in Diagon that a wizard can get respectably sloshed on New Years?”

“Not for the likes of you, _Death Eater_.” the barman sneered.

“Yes, yes heard it all before. Now if you could direct me towards another pub where I can spend my filthy, undeserved galleons, I’d be most obliged.”

The disgruntled wizard who took it upon himself to get Draco kicked out of said pub in the first place, appeared at the door and promptly emptied his tankard of butterbeer directly into his face.

“Not how I usually take it but-“

“Piss off, Malfoy. Unless you need an Auror to escort you out too.”

He made to stand and leave with as much of his remaining dignity intact as he could muster. Which at this point was about as substantial as the puddle of butterbeer dripping to his feet.

“Well if this is the level of service I am to expect from such a prominent wizarding establishment as the Leaky Cauldron, then I will take my business elsewhere,” he made a show of wiping a finger on the wooden panelling of the door and inspecting the invisible dust that collected onto his fingertip with a sneer. “Somewhere more sanitary. There are such things as cleaning spells you know. _Scourify. Tergeo._ Surely you’ve heard of one of them.”

The barman spat at him.

“Don’t let me see your face here again, Death Eater.”

Malfoy took his sweet time straightening his lapel and dusting his sleeves despite the clear excess of alcohol still dripping from his hair before turning to leave. Although perhaps he executed that last step with a bit more exaggerated flourish than necessary. Spinning on the heels of his dragon-hide shoes on an already slippery surface of melting snow and beer, landed him back on pavement, flat on his arse. Yet again.

The greasy barman and wizard cackled at his inelegancy and then promptly slammed the door shut behind him. Officially ejected from yet another venue he was probably barred from for life now. He should really start making a list because at this rate it was going to be difficult keeping up with all of them.

But as far as new traditions go this one wasn’t so bad. Despite an evening of being cussed out from the likes of relatives, drunk patrons and the occasional stranger on the street as he made his way from bar to bar – he had not yet been hexed by anyone, which Draco took to be a very positive sign indeed.

And he had long since surpassed that stage of inebriation where he could feel any sensation in his outer extremities which made his tumble to icy cobblestones decidedly less painful then it surely should have been if he was sober.

It had even started snowing. Pretty little snowflakes were soundlessly gliding through the air and landing beside him. He stuck his tongue out to try and catch a few.

“Malfoy? Are you alright?”

_Merlin, that voice. Would recognise it anywhere._

Hermione fucking Granger.

He may have spoken too soon about not being hexed as of yet. If he was going sparring with anyone tonight it would surely be with one of the golden trio.

‘Evening, Granger.”

He opted for nonchalance. Donning a practiced smirk. Best not to start on the defensive right off the bat.

Her eyes were wide. With fear. Contempt. Confusion. It was hard to tell. But her mouth was opening and closing like a fish so if he had to take an educated guess it was probably the latter.

“Lovely night for it.”

“-Yes I suppose. Are you sure you’re alright Malfoy?”

“Spiffing.”

Why did she sound so… alarmed. Doesn’t she know its New Year’s Eve? This witch needs to learn to loosen up a bit. But if memory serves correct she always was stick in the mud so he shouldn’t be too surprised by her current demeanour.

She edged closer to him slowly, bending down to inspect his face with a wary eye.

“You have blood on your nose.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that,” he instinctively wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his dress robes in a way that would definitely have made his mother theatrically clutch her pearls and scold him into the new millennium. “Had a bit of a misunderstanding earlier at Hogsmeade.”

The blood was dry and flaking off his skin. Hardly anything to warrant as much concern as Granger was currently regarding him with.

He looked back over to Granger and Sweet Salazar he had been right, the witch had drawn her wand. Well he wasn’t going to sit on his backside and wait for a hex to the face.

“At least wait for me to get up and stand, Granger. That’s no way to start a duel taking your opponent unawares. Weren’t you paying attention in our second year at all?”

“I -What?”

“Now, where did I put it?” he patted down his robes for his wand. Hearing it clatter to the ground, apparently falling out of a pocket he wasn’t even aware he had with these robes. He picked it up and stood to his full height. “I believe it’s customary to bow first.”

“Oh for goodness sake, Malfoy. _Episkey_.”

There was a loud crunch that sounded a lot like someone biting down on an ice cube.

Before Malfoy could register where the noise had come from or the fact that he could now feel the dank alley air brush through his nostrils; Granger was muttering a quick successions of spells with her wand thrusting deliberately towards his person. He heard a _‘scourify’_ and felt a hot air charm blow through his hair, probably ruining the perfectly slicked back style he’d spent the better part of his early evening trying to accomplish.

He scowled at her.

“Are you quite done?”

“That should just about do it. You’re all cleaned up now but a shower wouldn’t hurt either. You smell _terrible_ , Malfoy.”

His scowl deepened.

“Well as lovely as it’s been catching up with you Granger, I do have places to meet, people to be. That sort of thing.”

He might be able to get into the Three Broomsticks again with a decent glamour now that he’s thinking of it.

“You are in no state to be apparating Malfoy,” she had that wide eyed look of alarm on her face again. Her tone just as authoritative and reproachful as it was back in fifth year when they were prefects together.

 _Who does this witch think she is, telling me what I can and can’t do?_ She’d give McGonagall a run for her money with that disapproving glare, that's for sure.

“You’ll just have to use the floo, come on, I was heading in to use one just now.”

She gestures to the Leaky Cauldron like it was his first time visiting Diagon Alley and he was in need of a tour guide to point out the sights. He rolls his eyes.

“Can’t. I’ve been barred.”

She’s supposed to look at him now with haughty disdain. Or laugh at him with malicious glee. Say something snarky, ‘Oh how the mighty have fallen’ and all that bollocks. It’s exactly what he would have done if the roles were reversed.

But she doesn’t do any of those things. If anything she looks a little sad. And disappointed. No, it’s not quite that. It’s pity in that expression. Somehow that’s decidedly worse than anything he was expecting she’d do.

“Well there’s public floos near Gringotts. We’ll just use those ones instead.”

And then she actually spins around (without slipping over, mind you) and walks through the bricked alcove onto the main street. Like she expects him to follow her. Like they were just two mates heading home after a long night’s bender.

“Yes, thank you Granger I am aware of the layout of Diagon Alley. I don’t need a map.”

But she’s already out of ear shot and he’s still standing there, wand in hand and for all appearances talking to the brick wall like an idiot.

“Hey Granger!”

“Yes, Malfoy?”

She looks over her shoulder slightly but doesn’t turn around. Just keeps on walking off to the floos. The nerve of it all. _Fuck it._ He’d hadn’t pissed her off yet apparently so it was high time he rectified that situation.

“Wait up.”

And the he actually runs after her. Well not runs. More of a casual jog. Like he’s just doing it for a laugh. But clearly the snow has made the street too unstable a surface to do anything more swift than a power walk and suddenly he’s sliding out of control and stumbling into a shop display of owl cages.

“Jesus, Malfoy. Watch where you’re going.”

“Erm- yes. It’s quite slippery round here. Watch your step.”

He steadies himself on the shop display and successfully upends a few more bird cages to the ground with a raucous clatter. These sleek, formal, dragon-hide loafers he’s wearing don’t exactly offer much grip - that must be why he’s so uncoordinated tonight...

“Funny. I don’t seem to be having the same problem as you.”

Now she’s definitely laughing at him. But it’s not derisive. Not cruel sounding. It’s actually quite a nice sound. And then she moves to loop her arm though his and place the other on his bicep, guiding him slowly down the street like he’s a member of the elderly or infirm.

“You’re even drunker than I thought you were,” she mumbles.

And this is apparently where the line had crossed. He’s been humiliated one times too many this evening and it’s high time he started putting people in their rightful place.

“What are you doing Granger?” He strangles his arm free from her as if he’s disgusted by her touch, sneering down at her, “Are you really that _desperate_ for an escort you’ll attach yourself to the first bloke you see.”

She snorts.

“Yeah, you’re a real catch.”

“Don’t see anyone else out here with you. Haven’t even got the Weasel round your arm. What’s wrong Granger, spending New Year’s all alone?”

That’s better. She looks well hacked off now.

“You’re out here alone too, Malfoy.”

“It’s one thing for _me_ to be out here on my own. I happen to be enjoying an evening of drunken debauchery to commemorate the new millenium. But for a girl, let’s face it, it’s just pathetic being out on your own for New Year's Eve.”

Yep, she’s pissed.

Her brows are scrunched. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line. Hands flexing into fists. If looks could kill he’d be avada-ed on the spot by now.

Time for one more final blow.

“What are you even doing out here on your own? You don’t seem like you’ve been out drinking. You’re dressed like a spinster. Did no one want the Golden Girl at their NYE Party?”

That one definitely hit a nerve. Her eyes are watering up a little. Lip quivering. She looks away to hide it but it’s too late. As soon as he saw it he knew he’d won.

 _Merlin, this feels nostalgic._ He didn’t think after Hogwarts he’d ever get the chance to verbally accost a Gryffindor again. He’s practically giddy waiting for her comeback.

She’s looks up to him again. Lips parting hesitantly. Eyelashes fluttering.

_Here it comes._

“You really are relentlessly unpleasant, do you know that,” she whispers.

But it’s not angry or spiteful the way she says it. She just gazes up at him with those big, glassy eyes, searching his own. As if she’s trying to assess whether there’s anything good in him that might contradict her statement. Then as quickly as it had begun, it’s all over and she’s moving away from him. Her features relaxing into something more suitably disdainful. She made her evaluation and she didn’t seem to find anything in him worth her time.

Suddenly he feels completely sober.

She continues walking up the street and his legs follow almost of their own accord. He’s supposed to be done with her now, yes? But he is matching her stride for stride. Waiting for her to say something else. To have another go and insult him better. He almost feels like lecturing her.

This is not how this conversation should have gone. Granger always used to rise up to the bait. But she could dish it out just as well as he could. Between the Weasel who couldn’t throw an insult any better than he could a spell. And Potter whose main defence resorted to scowling and brooding. She was the only one out of the trio he could count on for some decent repartee.

“You know you’re remarkably articulate for someone so drunk.”

_Merlin, she’s complimenting me now? Something must be deeply wrong._

“I’m understanding how you got the broken nose better now too.”

Getting warmer.

_Keep it coming, Granger. You might actually step on up to being marginally impolite at this rate._

She laughs again. And it really is a nice sound. He can’t remember if he ever heard her laugh. Surely he must have heard it in passing. But if he did wouldn’t he have noticed immediately how pretty it was?

It was in direct contrast to all the others he’d heard. Pansy used to shriek like a hyena whenever he cracked a joke, even when said jokes were objectively lame, which they usually were. The Greengrass sisters always cast about a snide air as they tittered in unison when gossip was being exchanged. His mother’s laughter was lyrical but mechanical. Fixed. Always hitting the exact same notes. Grangers’ laugh just sounded genuine. Like she meant it. Like there was no other ulterior reason to make the noise other than the fact that she was amused.

“Go on,” she gestures to the floo, “You go first. That way if you drunkenly slur your home address and end up in Lithuania or something, I can alert your next of kin.”

He jumps in surprise. He wasn’t even aware they had stopped walking and had arrived at the public floo network.

“I thought we established I’m an eloquent drunk.”

She sighs in exasperation but her eyes are still full of mirth, “Go home, Malfoy.”

He baulks. Standing rigid before the fire place like he might be pushed into it at any moment against his will.

“I can’t go home.”

“Why not.”

“I just can’t. Not tonight.”

“Well, floo to a friend’s house then?”

“I can’t do that either.”

“Why not?”

“Haven’t got any.”

Well, he hadn’t intended for that to slip out but at the moment Draco found himself oddly not giving a shit. It was an interesting predicament though. One he hadn’t found himself in before. He was out on the town, intoxicated, friendless, with no place to return to and no reputable establishment willing to take him in for the night. Maybe he could sneak back into the Leaky under a disillusionment charm and have a kip in an empty booth.

Hermione sighed and gripped his arm again. “You can crash at mine. It’s a bit of a mess right now but the sofa was delivered today so you can sleep on that. And I can rustle up a sobering draught to spare you from what I’m sure would have been the mother of all hangovers tomorrow.”

Why was she being so thoughtful? And obliging... To _him_. Doesn’t she know who he is? What he did during the war – what he did to her, specifically, for the past eight years – Merlin’s left testicle if this wasn’t the weirdest night of his life already, seeing Hermione Granger express sentiments of genuine concern and care for him was enough to make him question his sanity at this point.

“You want to take me home with you, Granger? You really are desperate then. Trying to wrangle a midnight kiss out of me?”

She snorts, “As tempting as that sounds from someone who smells like the bottom of a pub floor. It’s almost 1am so I think that opportunity has officially expired.”

He scowls. Behind all the mocking he was lucid enough to practice some level of wariness for a situation such as this. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were not friends. What could she possibly gain from offering him some suspiciously courteous albeit opportune assistance?

“This isn’t some elaborate scheme you’ve concocted to kidnap and torture me, is it?”

She cringes at little at that and it takes a full 30 seconds for him to realise exactly why she might react that way.

“Look, Granger - that came out wrong.”

“Yes. It did. But I’ll forgive you if you just oblige me in this request as strange as I’m sure it sounds to you coming from _someone like me_.”

“And why would you help me?”

She scoffs, “If you could see yourself right now I think that answer would be fairly obvious.”

He scowls again but his body turns complicit under her pestering and gentle nudging into the fireplace. She shouts her address and in moments they both arrive into a cramped apartment overflowing with crumpled newspaper, stacks of cardboard boxes and partly assembled furniture.

“Morgana’s tits, Granger. Father always said muggles were a dirty, uncivilised race of people but I never really believed it till now. It’s like the bloody Room of Hidden Things in here.”

“Oh sod off, Malfoy,” she says shoving him down onto a plush sofa that was half submerged in books.

She mumbles a few choice insults under her breathe as she rummages through the wreckage of her personal possessions. She throws a blanket over her shoulder in his general direction which happens to hit him square in the face and then conjures a small waste basket by his side (evidently preparing for the likelihood of him chucking his guts up at some point through the night.) Before whipping out of the room to bring him a glass of water and the aforementioned sobering draught.

Malfoy kicks off his shoes and props his feet up on the end of the sofa, quite enjoying the experience of being waited on by his former school nemesis. He reclines like a lord of the manor entirely at his leisure. Fully intending to bask in this as much as he possibly can by prolonging the ordeal for her. Hermione glares at him as she places the water and potion on a small coffee table, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. Then whisks out of the room at a break-neck speed.

“Bathrooms down the hall. Goodnight.”

The lights are off before he can formulate a reply.

Malfoy obediently takes the potion and chases it down with a swig of water before lying back down. Willing himself to surrender to sleep before he can sober up enough to realise what a spectacular fool he has made of himself tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being much longer than I had originally meant it to be and I'm afraid I may have gone a touch overboard on the exposition and character monologue. So I'm sorry about that but boy oh boy do I have some DRAMA for this story planned in the chapters ahead. 
> 
> To anyone out there reading, Happy New Year! Many happy returns and all that. We survived 2020, look at us. Who would have thought? Not me.
> 
> Next chapter update will be early January.

_January 1st, 2000_

Hermione always tried her best to savour those few minutes of blissful oblivion that occurred every morning in the transition between sleep and wakefulness when her brain had yet to form a single coherent thought.

It was perhaps only in these fleeting moments - where she could relish the cosy sensations of nuzzling her head deeper into the pillow and pulling the covers tightly around her, creating a cocoon of warmth and security – that she truly could escape the ubiquitous, depressing realities of her life through the mercy of a drowsy witlessness.

Today however she had no such luck.

She startled abruptly from her dreams to the sound of a rattling window pane. An owl was tapping against the glass like an overly caffeinated college student at a keyboard. Jostling the frame at its hinges, the noise criminally disturbing the simple quietude that always proceeds an early Sunday morning.

Hermione spluttered dumbly and jolted out of bed to put an end to the ungodly racket. Opening the window with a harrumph, the tawny owl took no regard for her displeasure and swooped into the room depositing its delivery of the Daily Prophet on her rumpled sheets before flying out again as quickly as it had come.

She marched back to her bedside, determined to chase whatever remnants of sleep she could in spite of her rude awakening. But the bold type font of newspaper’s headline, displaying an all too familiar name, unwittingly grabbed her attention and immediately ended any hopes of a lie in. 

  


****

**HEIR TO THE THRONE NO LONGER?**

****

**DRACO MALFOY’S CATASTROPHIC FALL FROM GRACE**

  


_Oh Dear Godric._

Hermione all but ran back to bed and hastily tore open the Prophet to drink in the sight of today’s cover article.

How Rita Skeeter managed to pull together an exposé this elaborate overnight for the morning’s press she had no idea (Actually Hermione had a very good idea of the journalist’s underhand methods but chose not to hold it against her in regard to this particular case). She had to give credit to the slimy, old roach – she really pulled out all the stops with this one.

Front and centre a rerunning image of Draco Malfoy being punched in the face by her schoolmate Seamus Finnegan was displayed. His typical haughty sneer contorting into a pained grimace as Seamus’ fist honed in on his jaw. She saw how the fateful blow cracked his nose askew. Saw blood splatter his pristine robes. Saw him lose his footing and stagger back into the bar table, knocking over several people’s drinks.

She snorted.

Not only was her childhood bully receiving a probably well-deserved punch to the face. But said punch was also on the front cover of the Prophet. She made a mental note to cut this picture out and frame it somewhere.

Hermione was able to savour the sweet triumph of this news (news that could only be described by her as a karmic debt finally being repaid) for approximately two seconds before her stomach lurched and the events of last night came crashing down upon her.

_Draco Malfoy is in my living room._

_Draco Malfoy is in my living room because I willingly bought him to my home last night._

_Therefore it stands to reason that Draco Malfoy is still in my living room this morning._

_Fuck._

Hermione felt as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head. She sat wide-eyed and frozen in place as her brain tried to catch up with these mortifying revelations.

Visions of Malfoy sitting like a child on the cobblestones outside the Leaky Cauldron, seemingly oblivious to the blood on his robes or how pale and blue his skin was getting from the cold. How blasé he had been to see her there. Like they were old chums.

He was obviously trashed but it was still thoroughly disconcerting for her to see Malfoy behave in any other way that wasn’t insufferably conceited. Especially to her.

She winced at the memory of seeing that his nose was in fact broken. His temple gashed. He had a black eye. And his gaze was vacant like he might pass out at any moment. She couldn’t very well leave him there in that state. Vulnerable to frost bite and infection to his open wounds.

She had stepped closer to heal him and could barely conceal a disgusted grimace at the putrid scent rising off him. The stench of alcohol mixed with sweat and some kind of excessively masculine cologne almost had her gagging.

After a series of healing spells, diagnostics, a scourify for his bloodied clothes, a hot air charm to dry off the liquor dripping from his dishevelled hair as well as a final warming charm for good measure. Hermione felt satisfied with her spellwork.

Good deed completed. She could be off now with a clear conscience knowing that she wouldn’t be partly responsible for him dying in a ditch somewhere.

Of course he’d been a complete prat about it and didn’t even bother to thank her. It wasn’t till he mumbled something about apparating to the Three Broomsticks that she felt obliged to offer of second act of service to Malfoy. Getting him home safely.

She shuddered.

Curse her incessant capacity for compassion. Why did she always have to fall victim to her altruism and bother with pesky little things like ‘giving a shit about people’s welfare’ and ‘doing the right thing’?

Well if she was going to help Malfoy again she may as well get it over and done with quickly. She tried to herd him into the Leaky Cauldron, get him into a floo and out of her hair.

“Can’t. I’ve been barred,” he said.

He looked _ashamed_ when he told her. That was certainly new. She couldn’t ever remember seeing that expression on him before. Where was the gloating, insolent bully that used to call her a mudblood and harass her friends?

Then it had hit her like a _stupefy_ how different his life must be now. How the Malfoy name had been tarnished, his family insulted in the Prophet every other week. How his father received a life sentence to Azkaban. And how he must be shunned anytime he went out in public.

_Merlin, was she feeling sorry for Malfoy now?_

Her resolve to get him back home and away from her increased by tenfold.

“Well there’s public floos near Gringotts. We’ll just use those ones instead.”

She had spun on her heel without waiting for a reply. Hermione knew he would follow her. Knew how her having the last word would irk him. It always did. She walked back down Diagon and began the countdown for his following footsteps.

_One. Two. Three…_

She heard his sarcastic drawling from behind her. No doubt saying something derogatory.

_Four. Five. Six. Seve- ___

____

____

“Hey Granger!”

She smirked. Unable to conceal the smugness from her tone.

“Yes, Malfoy”

“Wait up.”

Hermione didn’t even have proper time to turn around and comply to his request before there was an almighty crash. Malfoy had cannoned into the shop display at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Knocking down several owl cages and falling to the ground in comical fashion. He stumbled and tried to right himself several times over before gravity finally won out. She bit her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

“Jesus, Malfoy. Watch where you’re going.”

“Erm- yes. It’s quite slippery round here. Watch your step.”

More bird cages clattered to the footpath before he could get himself upright again. And then he says his shoes have no grip, been giving him trouble all night. And it occurs to Hermione that Malfoy is not making excuses to save face for his clumsiness. He is just that drunk that his inhibitions are low enough for him to speak his thoughts aloud.

“Funny. I don’t seem to be having the same problem.”

Hermione couldn’t hold in her laugh this time. The situation was just too absurd. And he stares at her like he is just realising this too.

She waved her wand to tidy up the trashed shop display and then looped her arm in his to guide him to the floo network, still giggling.

So, Malfoy was an honest drunk. She had wondered what else he might divulge to her when he was in this state. What thoughts would spill out of his mouth completely unfiltered…

Another owl – this time a scrappy little thing that Hermione instantly recognised to be Pigwidgeon – scampered through the open window and landed on her bed spread. Hermione jumped and her stomach rolled uneasily for the second time this morning.

Ron.

She had quite forgotten the existence of that wizard for the good few minutes this morning and hadn’t that been marvellous.

She cautiously unfurled the little scroll of parchment the owl had delivered her. Releasing a nervous breathe as she recognised the hurried cursive not to be that of her ex but of his sister’s.

  


_Hermione,_

_Harry told me everything._

_Ron is a great fermenting heap of dragon dung that doesn’t deserve to share the same air as you and I am ashamed to say I’m a blood relation._

_I’m sorry you felt like you had to leave last night because of anything that blundering flobberworm did. You missed out on seeing a pretty decent bat bogey hex hit him though. Truly one of my best._

_Brunch today? Fortescue’s?_

_Let me know,_

_Ginny_

  


Not even the image of Ron churning out bat shaped boogers from his overly elongated nose was enough to mollify Hermione as her insides curdled in embarrassment. The memory of last night’s NYE party at Grimmauld Place would be one she knew she would have trouble repressing for years to come.

Harry and herself had been planning this little do for months. Although ‘little’ was no longer the most apt word for it. What started as an enthusiastic desire to reconnect with everyone after the war, to enjoy the first real celebration any of them had had in over a year. Quickly snowballed into a party for the ages.

They had invited all remaining members of the Order. The DA. The entire Weasley clan, even dozy Aunt Muriel. Harry had even gone to the effort to track down his Aunt’s family from witness protection to send them an invite (although only Dudley had attended).

Kreacher made so much food the long kitchen table heaved under the weight of it all. And so many people had turned up that not even the screaming portrait of Mrs. Black could be heard over the festivities.

It was such a relief to be surrounded by it all. The noise. The laughter. The frequent insistence from Molly Weasley to “eat something, you’re getting far too skinny!” It was the closest thing to family she had felt in a long time.

And then at the midnight countdown Ron had turned to kiss Lavender Brown instead of her.

It was like a mass silencing charm had been cast on everyone in the room. The sound of their lip smacking and moaning almost reverberated.

Then all eyes turned from Ron and Lavender’s salacious snogging to her.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. The incorrigible, gossiping Patil twins. Sombre George. Luna and Neville. Harry. All of them wearing the same expression of astonishment mingled with pity.

She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t breathe.

She bolted.

As soon as she was outside the wards she apparated to Diagon Alley. She didn’t want to be followed to her new flat. She didn’t want to discuss what just happened or dissect her feelings. She needed to breathe some air. Desperately.

Mercifully, the street was almost empty. Only a few witches and wizards were drifting in and out of pubs and restaurants. The sound of their merriment was largely subdued by the soft blanketing effect of snowfall.

She heaved for a few minutes. Sitting on the stone steps of Gringotts with her head between her knees.

It wasn’t that she felt particularly betrayed. Or even that embarrassed by Ron and Lavender getting together.

Indeed, Hermione and Ron’s relationship had been on the rocks for months. They both knew it and they had both jointly agreed to at least stay together for the duration of the holidays. It would be easier on both of them to keep the peace amongst all of his family and avoid any unnecessary awkwardness on her part by an untimely breakup.

Instead it was the realisation that everything would change now. That she might risk losing any of the people back in that room, as they would be forced to decide whether to side with Ron or herself, that had her gasping for breath.

All those familial ties were going to be strained or even severed because of that one stupid kiss.

Maybe it was selfish. That the only reason she clung to their relationship was so she wouldn’t have to feel lonely for Christmas. But without her parents who else did she have in her life that would remain by her side?

_“What are you even doing out here on your own? Did no one want the Golden Girl at their New Year’s Party?”_

Pigwidgeon pecked at fingers. She squeaked in surprise at the sensation, successfully rousing her from her morose reflections back to the present.

“You need a reply don’t you?”

The owl hooted in confirmation.

She quickly penned an affirmative to brunch with Ginny. She really should know what the fallout of last night would be even if she was dreading it. All the same, once the owl left with her message Hermione slugged her way out of bed. She needed coffee before she could truly allow herself to emotionally unpack any of this.

She grabbed the newspaper and tiptoed to the kitchen. Floorboards creaking underfoot. As the electrical kettle started to hum to life, Hermione’s curiosity got the better of her and she read the article on Malfoy to fill in the gaps of her knowledge on the wizard and his drunken escapades. 

  


__

_Just when we all thought the Malfoy name couldn’t be dragged any deeper through the mud, last night’s shocking displays of indecorum and degeneracy from the youngest of the family line sought to the end of any remaining dignity the family may have clung to in public esteem._

__

_What should have been the event of the century, the Malfoy New Year’s Eve Ball, poised to welcome in the new millennium, was abruptly stalled before it had even begun. Reformed Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, was seen storming out of the Manor by the majority of the three hundred already assembled guests, after a heated row took place between himself and his own mother, Narcissa Malfoy._

__

_Just what could have caused such an outburst at the scene of one of the Malfoy’s most coveted annual events, remains to be known but attendees from the Ball have helped fill in all the sordid details, for me and my ravid readers._

__

_“They had just finished welcoming the Greengrass family to the ballroom when Draco suddenly lost it,” revealed Pansy Parkinson, a Pureblood debutante, “he and his mother left without another word to anyone and locked themselves in the drawing room for several minutes before Draco ran out again shouting, ‘Well, maybe I don’t want to be a Malfoy anymore!’”_

__

_Draco Malfoy was later sighted at a variety of popular wizarding establishments the very same evening and was given a most unwelcome greeting from patrons and business owners alike. And who could blame the public given the list of charges laid against his door? Reports ranging from minor instances of drunken, disorderly conduct to the more extreme cases of public brawls and property damage have been filed against the current Malfoy heir._

__

_What are we to make of this young wizard’s reckless behaviour? What of his declaration of staving from the family name? Is Draco rejecting his lineage in favour of a more troubled path? Perhaps returning to his Death Eater ways, Hell bent on destruction of our wizarding world again? As always is with the Rita Skeeter promise, I will stop at nothing till me and my readers discover the truth to this shocking turn of events…_

  


Hermione scoffed at Rita’s hyperbolic prose as she prepared her coffee. Jumping from family disagreement to abdication. Drunken idiocy to the destruction of the wizarding world in a few short sentences.

For Merlin’s sake, he’s a nineteen year old boy. A boy who had a tantrum and got plastered on NYE like everybody else. And if Malfoy was planning to ‘return to his Death Eater ways’ then she would publicly declare that Umbridge was the best Headmistress Hogwarts ever had.

Draco Malfoy was a lot of things. Snob. Bully. Prejudiced, foul-mouthed git. But she could say with absolute objective certainty that he was as much a willing participant in the war as she was. Or Harry for that matter.

Malfoy’s actions during the war (or his inactions rather) proved as much to her. They were all forced into that conflict. He just had the misfortune of being on the wrong side. Each of them did what they had to for survival. But all of them were equally subjected to the madness of a psychopathic wizard and a deranged totalitarian regime.

What did give her cause to raise an eyebrow was Pansy’s comment. Did he really say he didn’t want to be a Malfoy anymore?

Even if Pansy was, for lack of a better term, a complete bitch, Hermione always knew her to tell the truth. The brutal and honest truth.

And Rita, although prone to exaggeration and blatant character assassination (refer to years 1994 – present day) had always reported conversations factually, at least.

She chewed her lip in thought.

Last night’s conversation flowing back to her.

_“I can’t go home.”_

_“Why not.”_

_“I just can’t. Not tonight.”_ He gritted out.

There was something in his tone that brooked no arguments. Hermione had trouble understanding it last night. But in light of this news, it made sense that Malfoy could have estranged himself from his family and was delaying his return. She and Malfoy had that in common, at least.

Another memory rose to the surface…

_“Well, floo to a friend’s house then?”_

_“I can’t do that either.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Haven’t got any.”_

And even though Hermione knew deep down that she was blessed to be surrounded by so many friends and they all supported her in their own way, as she did them. She couldn’t help in that moment think in silent reply the words, _‘Me, too.’_

It shamed her to think it now. But it was there nonetheless. The unbidden and pained truth of it all. That despite all that she had. All those that she surrounded herself with. She felt lonely.

She was taken aback by it. Both his honest admission and her involuntary thoughts.

Could that be why she had offered for Malfoy to stay the night? Was she that lonely she would take Malfoy home for company on the vague assumption that he felt just as alone as she did?

_“You want to take me home with you, Granger? You really are desperate then. Trying to wrangle a midnight kiss out of me?”_

She scoffed.

No. There was no way. She was just doing him a favour. An undeserved favour at that. It was common decency. Nothing more.

She poked her head out of the kitchen door. Realising she hadn’t even seen him yet – maybe, with any luck, he had already left.

She rounded the corner down the hall, startled to find Crookshanks nestled into the crook of Malfoy’s neck as he lay comatose on her couch.

She scowled.

_Traitorous little furball._

Padding over closer to him, Hermione studied his face.

Her healing spells had taken affect remarkably well. Only some purplish bruises remained around his left eye socket and temple. If she hadn’t witnessed firsthand the absolute state of him last night or seen the pictures in the Prophet this morning, she would have only guessed that he had just a small tumble by the looks of him.

She moved a fraction closer and sniffed surreptitiously. Then sharply recoiled as if she’d been slapped.

He still smelled something awful.

Getting him off her furniture and out of her home was officially top priority.

….but how to do that exactly?

Hermione stared at him, momentarily stumped. Like he was a new puzzle she had to solve but didn’t have any clues provided.

She could almost stomach Malfoy’s presence when he was like this though. Unconscious and anodyne. His sharp, pointed features were softened by sleep. Blond hair falling about his face in white wisps as a single ray of early morning light cast it aglow. He looked almost cherubic in that moment. Pale, porcelain skin. Smooth and toned…

She almost smacked herself at the unintended direction of her thoughts.

 _Focus, Hermione._ She stood resolute. _Just get a hold of this situation now before it has a chance to get any more out of hand._

Now Hermione knew she was a witch renowned for her intellect. But being the ‘Brightest Witch of her Age’ had nothing to do with her magical prowess. Steadfast and highly logical. These were traits she prided herself on even before receiving her Hogwarts admission letter.

Give Hermione Granger a problem and she could solve it lickity split.

Getting past a series of advanced magical enchantments to protect the Philosopher’s stone with only a first year level of magical knowledge? Easy.

Deciphering vague, hidden messages left behind by an assassinated wizard to help hunt and destroy horcruxes? No problem.

Discovering the monster that lurked in the Chamber of Secrets? Well they weren’t even trying with that one. The Slytherin emblem is a bloody snake for Godric’s sake, even Ron could work it out with enough willpower.

But now Hermione was facing a quandary the likes of which she had never faced before.

What is the correct social etiquette for waking up a former school bully / former Death Eater / present-day arsehole when they stay the night in your flat?

Do you make him coffee? She only owns muggle brands so perhaps he will reject it on principle.

Pour a bucket of ice cold water over his head? Tempting… but the couch is new. And Crookshanks is currently attached to his neck so she’d prefer not to invoke his wrath this early in the day.

Hex to the face?

Actually… she’s hard-pressed to see an issue with that one.

But she supposes being a ‘good witch’ and part saviour of the wizarding world, there is an implicit understanding that she uphold some ethical code of not attacking another wizard unwarranted.

There’s that pesky moral fibre getting in the way again.

Pull back the curtains?

Hmm.

That’ll do.

Hermione pulled the drapes open in one foul swoop. It’s an eastern perspective from this side of the apartment so the morning light is positively blinding.

Perfect.

“Mmmnneugh-“

He groaned and winced as he turned on his side away from the brightness.

“Good morning!”

Yes, this was definitely the right way to go about it. She got to experience the acute pleasure of watching Draco Malfoy transition from pathetic, post inebriated lethargy to sitting bolt upright in a state of panic in the span of 0.5 seconds.

“What- … How am I… what happened last night?”

She could actually see his brain circuits go into overload as he grappled with the torrent of thoughts passing through him. Turning his head in every direction to catalogue his surroundings like an anxious bird. Desperately cleaving to the hope that something in the vicinity might solve his current predicament.

His eyes settles back on her and his final reaction is one of open mistrust.

“Perhaps this will jog your memory,” she sings and tosses the Daily Prophet to him from across the room.

If it’s even possible at this point his brows manage to go further up his face than they did moments before. His eyes scan the page at about the same rate as she would read a library book during exam season.

“That bitch,” he finally mutters.

She laughs.

“I won’t disagree with your there, Rita Skeeter is well-known for her liberal views on defamation but seeing as you were responsible for half the articles she wrote about me in fourth year, I’m having trouble feeling anything other than immeasurable gratification right now.”

He looks up to her with a lazy sneer, “Not Skeeter. My mother.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to lift a surprised brow.

“Your mother?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, eyes turning back to the newspaper. Then slowly his face splits open into that shit-eating grin she has known him to sport since the age of eleven. “She’s going to be absolutely livid about this.”

“So it’s true then… about your _disagreement_ with your mother?”

“Yes, yes Rita didn’t miss a beat. However, the later details are… hazy.”

He stares around her apartment again with a much more open look of contempt that could rival his father’s.

“Granger – this place is a mess. Are we in a storage facility somewhere? Are you planning to murder me, chop me up into pieces and then store my limbs away into all these cardboard boxes?”

She snorts.

“I believe you already expressed similar reservations last night.”

He gave her an incredulous look which made her laugh even more.

“This is my new flat. I’ve just moved in. Still haven’t had a chance to properly unpack with holiday season being so busy and all.”

“Obviously.”

A stilted pause followed.

“You were in a rough state last night. All bruised and bloodied. You had a broken nose and were almost hypothermic when I found you. I healed you as best I could and tried to get you home but… you weren’t amenable to that so I let you crash here.”

Now an even longer pause followed.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

She was sure that he was about to say something to that but an abrupt knock at her front door had them both jumping in fright.

“Just leave whenever. There’s floo powder on the mantle.”

Hermione dashed out the room. Someone was knocking at her door impatiently. Hammering it, more like. Merlin, will the universe stop at nothing to ensure she doesn’t have a peaceful morning.

She swings open the door sharply without bothering checking the peephole. Fully intending to give this visitor a piece of her mind but she stumbles back when she sees her new house guest.

“Ron.”

“Hermione, I’m really sorry about last night. I was drunk – like really drunk and honestly it was more Lav then me but once we got going it wasn’t easy to stop. Old flame and all that. And you and me already agreed to breakup after New Year’s and technically when we kissed it _was_ New Year’s – Not that I should’ve done it in front of every one-“

“Hmm. What makes you think that? Is it because you’re genuinely sorry or because Ginny hexed you?”

His eyes boggled comically.

“How did you know bout that?”

Hermione put on a well-practiced glare.

“Right, doesn’t matter. Well I am genuinely sorry. For kissing her in front of you- and everyone else. I was a right twat.”

“Yes, you were. And- it’s alright Ronald, really. I’m not mad about you hooking up with Lavender. I just wish you had a bit more tact is all. Now everyone is going to make a big deal about this and as I said before I’d really hoped we could skip out on any unnecessary drama. That was the reason for the agreement in the first place if I recall correctly.”

“I know. I’m sorry. And you don’t have to be worried about that. Just about everyone is on your side.”

“I don’t want there to be _sides_ at all,” she let out a weary sigh. “So what went down last night after I left?”

Ron had the good-humour to sheepishly grin at her.

“Well after Ginny had put me right, Mum had a right go at me. If you reckon her howler in second year was bad than that was nothing compared to last night. There I was still trying to blow the last of those bats out my nose when I- ...Malfoy?”

Hermione stiffened.

Malfoy was stepping up to the door, buttoning up his shirt. But his shirt was already buttoned up before why would he need to…? He’s making it look like… Oh that unimaginable bastard.

“Morning Weasel-bee.”

Ron’s eyes were darting between her and Malfoy at alarming rate. Mouth agape. He was piecing together the picture they created standing in that door way. Hermione still in her night gown. Malfoy buttoning up his shirt. Hair tousled like he’d just gotten out of bed…

Malfoy smirked. The genuine glee he took in riling them both up was glimmering in those grey eyes.

“I’ll get out of your hair now, love. Don’t want to get in the way of your plans. I know you’re busy.”

He stepped out of the threshold, brushing past her hip and bumping into Ron’s shoulder.

“Oh and thanks for last night, Granger,” he said with a parting wink.

Maybe she should have killed him and cut him to pieces after all. That would be easier to explain that this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried desperately hard to include both Draco's and Hermione's POV in this chapter and then failed miserably. I knew as soon as I wrote in a certain plot twist at the end of this chapter that this fic was going to be a lot longer than I originally planned and I would need to put the groundwork in now for it to make sense later. 
> 
> But I am trying to keep it succinct though I promise! It might just be a bit more of a slow burn going forward and I hope that doesn't dissapoint anybody too much. More dramione moments coming soon too I promise x
> 
> Next update will be in a roughly a week's time.

Ron Weasley makes it too damn easy.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek all the way down the hallway of… wherever this apartment complex was.

Where in Merlin’s name was he, anyway? He had already turned down two identical hallways and still hadn’t found an exit.

No matter. Getting lost in this place would be worth it just to see that look on the Weasel’s face again.

Merlin, that befuddled expression took him right back to his Quidditch days, 5th year. When the ginger git was too dim-witted to even realise he missed defending the opponent’s quaffle from scoring in his own goal posts before another one hit him straight in the face.

He let out a self-satisfied sigh.

This day was already off to a brilliant start and it wasn’t even half past eight yet. Not only has he managed to rankle a Weasley, he also bagged in a Granger too.

She’d gone all stiff and prim and snotty just like he knew she would when he stepped up to that door. The appearance of all that self-righteous indignation that she wore so often was yet another hark back to the good ol’ days when all he had to do to rile her up was tell her she had some pumpkin pasty stuck between those enormous buck teeth of hers.

And damn it all if she didn’t deserve some kind of beat down for the wake-up call she had given him just moments before.

Doesn’t she know not to wake up a man of his youthful exuberance like that first thing in the morning? His morning wood had just about shrivelled up and died at the sound of her cheery voice.

That was until he saw how little she was wearing.

 _I mean really, did she have to wear a silk slip to bed?_ He could swear he saw the outline of her nipples under that fabric.

And the robe she had over it, half-heartedly draped on her shoulders without even the decency to tie the sash around her was barely enough to conceal the tops of her thighs. Or the fact that she had some of the longest, most-shapely legs he had ever seen…

Gods, he could not be thinking this right now, could he?

No actually, it should not be a surprise he would think something like that of Granger. Because despite the stereotype that all Slytherins were cold-hearted, egotistical maniacs who didn’t spare a second glance for anyone other than their own reflection. The reality remains that Draco Malfoy is in fact a warm-blooded, nineteen year old male and as such he would be blind not to notice these things about her. Or any witch for that matter.

And it’s not like it wasn’t the first time he’d thought of her that way. Indeed, ever since he turned fourteen years of age he’d been entertaining the idea of having his way with her. But he knew he certainly wasn’t alone in that opinion.

His memories of the fiasco that was his fourth year education at Hogwarts for the most part, remain a blur of Triwizard tournament hubbub punctuated by a minor traumatic incident of being transfigured into a ferret by his DADA teacher (or as it turns out another fellow Death Eater in sheep’s clothing. Great Salazar, he had the weirdest adolescence though, didn’t he?)

But he wouldn’t be the first to admit that Hermione Granger was a standout memory from that year to A LOT of boys.

Who could forget her in _that_ dress? The one that somehow transformed her from a toothy, know-it-all frizz ball into a… well… a completely different person, really.

Someone who glided along the ballroom, hips swaying rhythmically to the tune of the music. Who raised a crystal flute to her mouth, lips perfectly pouting around glass rim as she downed the contents. A girl who blushed profusely whenever Krum had gathered enough of his mental capacity to stop ogling her and actually think of something to say. Honestly if it wasn’t for the fact that he had known the girl for the past three years by then he would have seriously suspected she might have some veela blood running through those veins.

It took him some time that night to remember exactly what kind of blood she really had inside her and so deeply indoctrinated he was at that time to the Pureblood dogma of his upbringing, he had to mentally reprimand himself for any licentious thoughts he had directed her way. He then proceeded to talk shit about Granger for the rest of the evening as reparations.

But Merlin knows the Second Task didn’t help the situation either. Whoever decided to magically suspend Granger underwater for an hour only to be dragged out soaked, with her white school shirt clinging to chest, a purple bra fully visible though the wet material, deserved the equivalent of the Triwizard Cup; purely for the fact that they had just supplied half the school population with wank material for the next few years at least.

Besides, even if Granger was a perfect ten which she most assuredly is not! You would still have to put up with that stuck-up personality of hers and the fact she is a chronic swot too busy to lift her own nose out of a book to even comprehend notions of sex, let alone look any man’s way.

Hermione Granger was definitely a prude. He was sure of it. Truly a lost cause on that front.

Doubt she ever even let the Weasel slither into her sheets. Probably why he had to go snog a brainless bint like Lavender Brown last night instead of her. If anything Granger should thank _him_. Now that Ron had gone and seen him there he’d probably get all indignantly jealous and beg to have her back.

He turned yet another corner and was relieved to find a stairwell so he could make his escape.

This building was so architecturally odd…

The hallways were extremely narrow, lined with identical doors evenly spaced apart. The only level of distinction they had between them were small brass number plates attached to the front. Draco was beginning to feel uneasy under the strange bright fluorescents that lit the low hanging ceilings and the complete lack of windows.

He had to be in a muggle building. This was certainly not like any wizarding construction he had been to.

Where were the candles and sconces? Why were the walls and ceiling slicked with a hideous beige paint instead of just leaving the brick work naturally exposed? And what the fuck was this floor made of? It was shiny and cold like marble but almost had a plush feeling underfoot.

Deeply disturbed, he descended the staircase that appeared to twist around itself in a never ending loop. And attempted to dismantle his frazzled recollections of last night into a reasonable timeline.

He remembered quite clearly being bored out of his brains having to assist Mother with the hostess duties for the Ball.

Now that Father was effectively banished from their lives for good, it was his turn to take up the reins as the new Head of the House.

He had thought that would mostly entail dealing with all Father’s philanthropic donations (read: political bribes). And that all he would have to do on a semi regularly basis, was oversee the fiscal running of the Manor and make sure his Mother didn’t blow over the annual budget on designer apparel, extensions to the west wing and other such nonsense.

But last night put an end to any of those naïve preconceptions.

After spending the longest thirty minutes of his life standing by the entrance to the ballroom, training his expression to one of congenial hospitality as he greeted guests he pretended to know and watching his Mother schmooze with rapacious foreign diplomats and the upper echelons of Pureblood society.

Narcissa had briefly paused in her greetings to turn to him, as if to nag him to straighten his bowtie or to stop fidgeting again. Instead she had dropped a proverbial bomb over his head delivered under the guise of a casual exchange between mother and son.

_“Oh, here come the Greengrass’, doesn’t Daphne look stunning in those robes. Oh, by the way Darling, you’re arranged to be wed with the youngest Greengrass in the Fall.”_

She had told him of his imminent betrothals to a girl he had spoken to maybe a dozen times, as if it were an interesting tid-bit to exchange in tête-à-tête and not the actual earth-shattering news that it was.

News that he happened to be hearing for the first time in his life that very evening.

He had barely contained his rage as Mother greeted them. Neither she nor the Greengrass’ even alluded to the fact that he was to be wed to Astoria.

Salazar, the girl was still at Hogwarts. He was pretty sure she was still only sixteen years of age. Did she know of this arrangement? Or just the parents? How long had this arrangement been planned for anyway?

_“A moment, Mother.”_

_“Not now Draco, we still have to welcome our guests for another fifteen minutes and then you have your task of opening the ball with the first dance.”_

_“Mother. If you do not accompany me to the drawing room this second I will use my magic to force you in there myself.”_

After he had properly conveyed to her his most contemptuous death glare, she had the sensible composure to curtsey and smile at the oncoming guests before making their excuses and both departing. The second the door was closed, he had _silencio-ed_ the room and proceeded to scream at her for the next ten minutes.

Everything after that was a drunken haze just as he had hoped it would be.

He could not believe how monumentally fucked up his family was. He had thought after the war that that would be the worst of it, but apparently it wasn’t enough to sell your own son over to the Dark Lord, his parents also had to trade his whole life away too.

No choice. He never had a choice in any of it.

Well last night was the beginning of a series of choices for him. The first being getting so catatonically plastered he could for a brief moment in time forget the woes of being the sole male heir to the Malfoy family.

The second was to get himself beaten up so badly he might feel something other than impotent rage.

And the third was to repeat the first task if the latter didn’t prove sucessful.

And hadn’t Seamus Finnegan been a most obliging gentlemen in regards to his second wish. All he had to do was enter Hogshead and ask Aberforth if he missed his brother for the Gryffindor to punch his lights out.

He should really send him a thank-you card. Maybe even a fruit basket. _Dear Finnegan, I am indebted to you and your most expedient services last night. Please accept this gift as a token of my thanks. Kind Regards, Draco Malfoy._

How on earth he ended up from having a bar stool smashed over his back to waking up in Hermione Granger’s shitty little apartment, was the question of the century.

Once he had trained his eyes away from tracing the elegant arch of her collarbone, he had actually managed to listen to her tell her little tale of rescuing his sorry arse from the bottom of a ditch.

So the muggle-born saviour of the wizarding world thinks he needed saving as well, did she?

He scoffed.

So typical of her to insert herself into a narrative where no one ever even asked for her help in the first place.

Did she even bother to ask what he wanted to do in that situation? Because quite frankly he would have been fine to wake up in a gutter. Prefer it even.

Although he did have to admit that despite a slight twinge to his buttocks and upper calves as he descended the staircase just now, he felt remarkably well for someone who had recently consumed their weight in alcohol.

Had Granger given him a sobering draught as well as heal him? He had none of the excruciating hangover symptoms that he surely should be having right now.

He blanched.

If she had slipped him a sobering draught last night there was no telling what else she could have done to him. She could have shagged his brains out and he’d be none the wiser.

Or worse, she could have slipped him anything in a drink. Veritaserum. Babbling beverage. Confusing concoction. He could have said any number of things to her last night and she could use that information to hold over his head and incriminate him with.

He shook his head.

No, there was surely no need to doubt her motives even if they were enemies. She was too much of a sanctimonious swot to try anything underhand.

Of course, she would do this out of the goodness of her own bleeding heart and sought nothing from him to repay her kindness as _‘a good deed is its own reward’_ and all that rot.

He rolled his eyes.

The day a Gryffindor did anything without insufferable gallantry as a key motivator would be the day he would have to willingly check himself into St. Mungo’s in need of a brain scan to make sure he hadn’t in fact lost his marbles.

He had made it down to the end of the stairwell and had entered what looked to be a sort of lobby area. There were glass windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and from them he could see a muggle road with pedestrians and automobiles ambling along the snowy cityscape.

He faced a brief moment of bewilderment as he looked around to find the location to a front door so he could continue on outside when suddenly a muggle man rushed up to the tall glass windows and then the windows actually _moved_ to open for him as he entered.

“Morning,” the muggle said to him.

Draco must have still been looking aghast at this discovery of the moving windows because the muggle momentarily paused to look at him in question before shrugging and continuing on to another series of doors in the foyer.

He pressed a button and Draco heard a ding which signified another one of these erroneous doorways to open of their own accord and grant the muggle entrance. He entered what looked to be an elevator similar to one of those at the Ministry and gestured to him.

“Do you need to use the lift too?”

He shook his head dumbly in reply.

The elevator doors closed and he was left standing in the lobby alone. Completely dumbstruck by what he just witnessed.

How had muggles harnessed this magic to enchant the doors and windows?

He knew very little about the muggle world and how they lived their lives. Although he did have some awareness of their behaviours like their strange methods of transportation and the fact that they needed to do every inane task themselves without the reliance of house elves or wandwork.

But the majority of his education on muggles was supplied by his father who had always described them to him as a breed of human too savage and filthy to bother with for anything other than using their bones as kindling for the fireplace. Bellatrix had even more disturbing sentiments…

He shuddered at the memory and pressed it back into a distant corner in his mind that he kept strictly allocated for all things that happened between the years 1996 through to 98'.

Draco moved hesitantly towards to windows. Well, he supposed he should call them doors now. And marvelled as he approached how they slid open for him.

He stepped backwards and forwards a few times testingly. Watching them open and close shut for him as he did so.

The doors seemed to sense when one approached them. Like an inanimate valet. He had to admit it was kind of ingenious… for a muggle that is. He could work a trick like this out with a simple flick of his wand. But for a group of people who didn’t have magic…

Hmmph.

When he eventually did exit and he looked back to see the building he had just been inside. It was a staggeringly tall structure. Monolithic in size and completely hideous. Hundreds of small poky windows scaled the building’s height and Draco wondered idly which of these little cubbyholes Granger had managed to burrow herself into.

Any why on earth would she want to live _here_ rather than in the magical world? He would have thought once a muggle-born like her found out she had magic she’d jump ship and never look back to where she came from.

He shook his head as he realised that it really was none of his concern what Granger did with her life. He would probably never see her again after this one off. And all the better for him.

He walked down the road and ducked into an empty side street to apparate back to the Manor. Feeling slightly foolish that he didn’t just apparate ten minutes ago when he left her apartment, in the first place.

Once he was back in the comfort of his known and dependable world he let out a sigh of relief.

He hadn’t realised he had been holding so much tension in his shoulders and as he walked up the drive, past the hedged gardens and into the entrance hall, he rolled his back to relieve the strain.

On his journey he noted that several elves gave him odd and pointed looks before quickly glancing away to resume cleaning up the after party detritus and confetti strewn amongst the Manor.

He approached a decrepit old elf polishing the staircase railing. Herb. He thinks that’s what his name is. Or was it Basil? He had a 50/50 shot at getting this right either way.

“Which part of the house is Mother in, erm… Herb?”

The elf didn’t miss a blink.

“I believe she is taking breakfast in the sunroom this morning, Master Draco.”

Hmm. Guess he did get the name right. Although he doubted an elf would dare correct him either way.

He wandered down the hall to the back of the Manor and found his Mother sitting at a long colonial table with an array of the usual breakfast foods spread out along its length. She was currently occupied with the task of preparing her toast and if she noticed him enter the room, she gave no indication to it.

“Mother.”

“Draco.”

She continued spreading butter onto a slice of toast, her expression perfectly contented and if it weren’t for those two syllables she just spoke, he would have thought for all appearances that she still wasn’t aware he was standing there before her.

“May I?”

He gestured to the seat across from her.

“You may.”

He moved to take a seat cautiously. Untrusting. His movements wary like a rogue bludger might materialise out of thin air and come strike him at any moment.

A teapot rose to pour some Earl Grey into their cups. The gentle trickling of the tea amplified amongst the pregnant pause that expanded between the two of them.

And then eventually...

“Draco, could you please pass the marmalade.”

He passed her the small dish of marmalade.

“Would you like a croissant?”

“No, thank you.”

“Perhaps some eggs?”

“No. Thank you, I’m not hungry at the present.”

He _was_ hungry.

But he was also waiting.

His traitorous stomach grumbled as the smell of bacon wafted down from the table.

Narcissa smirked.

“Well do drink your tea before it gets cold, dear.”

He did not drink his tea.

“Perhaps you’d prefer coffee.”

Mother already knows that he hates coffee...

“…You must be so tired after your _jaunt about town_ last night.”

And… there it is.

“Actually, I felt rather refreshed by it.”

She stilled briefly in her meticulous application of marmalade jam to the toast and looked him in the eye for the first time that morning.

“Those bruises on your face say otherwise, Draco. Be sure to ask one of the elves to bring you some dittany.”

Then she continued on with her toast.

Draco sighed internally.

Well if she wasn’t going to be the one to start this, he was more than willing to get it over and done with.

“How was the Ball?”

She sliced the toast in half. A small clink sounding on the china plate as her knife cut down.

“Our Balls are always such a grand affairs as you know, Darling. I was quite rapt with my hostess duties...”

“My _apologies_ for neglecting my role so soon.”

“…Quite a queue started forming after you left.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, and so many were looking forward to seeing you, Draco. So many young ladies hoping to have your name written on their dance card.”

That and the key to his family vault at Gringotts.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his skull.

“And the Greengrass’ of course were very sorry to see you leave so soon.” She simpered and then her expression tightened slightly, as she clipped, “And that Parkinson’s girl.”

He smirked remembering Pansy’s contribution to the write up in the paper this morning. He’d need to send her a thank you card too.

“I’ll have to extend formal apology to them both. I didn’t realise I would be so sorely missed.”

“Yes, Astoria was especially sorry to not get a proper chance to meet you. She is to be your future spouse after all, Draco, you could have at least looked her in the eye during our introductions.”

He laughed.

A laugh that once it had escaped his lips he couldn’t stifle for several minutes. He was borderline maniacal with his mirth.

The fucking nerve of this woman sitting in front him. Coyly fussing about with the breakfast items whilst completely eviscerating him, her only child, for something _she_ did wrong.

He needn’t ever wonder where he got his nasty streak from. It was all her. Lucius was practically a twinkling angel atop the christmas tree compared to this witch.

“And what was last night meant to be, an engagement party?” he jeered.

Narcissa’s eyes flickered up to his momentarily. Her mouth twitched.

He scoffed.

“It was, wasn’t it? You were going to throw an engagement party last night. You invited all the dignitaries you could. The press. You'd probably announce it during the midnight speeches, yes? You’d planned everything except for the one small detail of, oh I don’t know, TELLING THE GROOM TO BE.”

“Do calm down, Draco, it’s a littler early in the day for these kind of dramatics.”

He slouched back in his chair. Defeated.

“Why? Why would you do this?”

“The Greengrass’s are a good image for us, Draco. They had no direct involvement in the war. They are Pureblood but have a good reputation at the Ministry as being… liberal minded.”

“Shame, the lucky lady in question is underage and not even finished her education yet.”

Narcissa’s brows furrowed.

“Astoria will be turning seventeen in April. She graduates this June. She is of age for a magical union of this nature and she and her parents are all perfectly willing…”

“Oh, so you did bother to tell _her_ about the arrangement then. But of course she will need time to plan the upcoming nuptials. Have her dress fitted. Organise the seating plans. I wonder when she’d make time to introduce herself to me.”

“She would have done so last night if you hadn’t stormed out,” she spat.

“And why not Daphne? At least we’re the same age and I’ve spoken more than two sentences to her.”

Truly, he did not care for Daphne. She could be worse than Pansy sometimes. But she had let him fondle her breasts once in fifth year when they snogged in a broom cupboard mid Prefect rounds.

He wondered briefly if that was the kind of thing he should tell Astoria before or after they’d made their vows.

“Daphne is already promised to the Nott family.”

“My condolences to Theo-”

“Draco!”

Her eyes were practically alight with rage now.

“Astoria was the best I could get. Do you know that?”

She took a fortifying sip of tea before clasping her hands on the table and letting out a deep breathe.

“After all this bad press with your Father. After everything you had done during the war. No one wants to touch us, Draco.”

“And they shouldn’t.”

“You know we were lucky to even be able to come back to this house. The Ministry tried seizing it too after they’d finished counting our silver-”

“Yes, I am aware of what the past few years have been like, Mother. If you recall I was present for all of it. I was the one who handled the lawyers. I was the one who sat through all the court summons. After, of course I’d been acquitted of my own charges. And where were you? Planning your next dinner party?”

“I was trying to do what was right for this family!” She looked properly incensed by his accusation, he could see a vein on her temple throb to life. “When you were sulking in the study, drinking from your father’s whisky cabinet. I was making a plan to get us out of this mess-”

“So, what… you plan to revive our family name from the ashes with a big fancy wedding? Invite the press to that too. Have my face and hers plastered on the cover of every Witch Weekly so eventually people will start saying, _‘Oh what a charming young couple.’_ And not _‘There goes that Malfoy boy, walking free among us instead of wasting away in a cell in Azkaban like he ought to be.’_ ”

“I would have been able to, if you hadn’t pulled a stunt like you did last night. I had barely been able to talk Gareth Greengrass down from reneging the marital contract yesterday. And then this shows up this morning,” she throws her copy of the Prophet at him that had been hidden beneath the table on her lap, “along with a dozen howlers and a formal correspondence from Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass expressing their concerns that they wouldn’t wish for their precious daughter to be connected to someone hell bent on ‘seeking the destruction of the wizarding world again.’”

Rita Skeeter deserves a pay rise.

Truly, she had done more for his lot than his entire family combined.

And then an idea struck him. He could work his way out of this mess.

He relaxed his demeanour and adopted the cool, measured voice his father had always used when delivering his most exacting insults.

“Perhaps, I’ll pop into The Daily Prophet’s office and pay Rita Skeeter a visit. Help her along with her story of me.”

Narcissa paused her hand infinitesimally as her tea cup made its way to her mouth.

“Let her know all about how I’m still eternally loyal to the Dark Lord’s regime even though he reigns no longer.”

The teacup landed on the saucer without even a clink. Narcissa gave him a levelled glare that he didn’t dare look away from.

“Alright Draco, if that’s how you want to handle this. You may have your choice to find a suitable alternative. I hardly think I need remind you what a suitable candidate should look like.”

He refrained from blinking.

There is no way she would make it this easy…

“Why Mother of course, I assume you mean someone of the correct marital age,” he drawled, ensuring his derision was dripping from every syllable he uttered.

“ _It means._ Purebloods and Half-bloods only, Draco. At least two generations of magical blood in the case of a half-blood. Sullying the Malfoy name with anything less would be an insult to every sacrifice we ever made for you.”

“Yes, you’ve done so much for me, I hardly know where to begin my thanks.”

He was too weak to resist rolling his eyes this time. He didn’t care.

“No thanks necessary, Darling.” She said, resuming her breakfast. “You have till Astoria’s graduation date to find an alternative partner.”

And… there it is again.

The clincher.

“You expect me to find a woman willing to marry me in six months?”

The grin on his mother’s face was practically savage.

“Yes Draco, if you possibly can,” she took a bite of her toast. Surely it must be cold by now.

He stared at her. Trying to wait her out but she just continued munching on her toast. A dainty napkin rising after each bite to pat her lips.

“And if that isn’t possible?” he said at last.

“Then I have another match already lined up for you,” she chirped.

Draco stood up from his chair.

_You know what._

If this was how she wanted to play it.

_Game fucking on._

“I look forward to introducing you to my fiancée in six months’ time, Mother.”

“That would be lovely, Draco,” she simpered and then spent a few seconds to truly take in his dishevelled appearance. “Now if you won’t have anything to eat, have one of the elves draw a bath for you. You smell _ghastly_ , darling.”

He gave her a mock bow before exiting the room.

He had only taken two steps down the hall when he heard his mother’s distant voice sigh.

“Pepper!”

A loud crack signified a house elf had materialised by her side.

“Is Lady Malfoy needing anything?”

“Coffee with a shot of odgen’s, please.”

Draco smirked.

He might be in for an easier fight than he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna preface this big ol' chapter with a CONTENT WARNING that there is a brief scene of Hermione having a panic attack and experiencing PTSD symptoms. Not sure if that warrants a CW but doesn't hurt either. 
> 
> Sorry I'm exceptionally bad at tagging this fic, I will update the tags and ratings to something more appropriate after I post this chapter. 
> 
> Also, I just wanted to say a big, soppy thank you to anyone who has given this story a chance and read it, commented, kudos-ed, etc. Anytime someone writes that they like the story or it made them laugh, its like getting a hit of serotonin directly to my brain, I swear. So thanks again and hopefully this chapter is just as enjoyable as the last.
> 
> Next chapter will be ??? In a week maybe?? I'm hesitant to give any set schedule to this story as it is still a WIP and as such I would like to give myself adequate time to write it and let ideas evolve naturally. 
> 
> Anyway I'm rambling, so hope y'all having a nice day / month / start to 2021 xx

_January 2nd, 2000_

Hermione Granger was just fine, thanks for asking.

Fine. Fine. Fine.

_“Happy New Year, Miss Granger, how have you been?”_

_“Do anything fun for New Year’s?” ___

____

____

_“Have a good Christmas?”_

_“How were your holidays?”_

Oh, excellent, really excellent. 

Well, apart from having a minor run in with an old childhood bully who she rescued from a certain drunken demise on New Year’s, who then proceeded to repay her kindness by giving her ex-boyfriend the impression they had slept together, causing said ex to run off to her two closest friends to tell them about it, even though she had explained quite clearly that that was not the case. Which was then followed by a full blown interrogation over brunch by one of said friends about the incident where she had to listen to quite frankly the most bizarre accusations about her love life she had ever heard (Rita Skeeter and Witch Weekly articles withstanding) which then led her to have a full on mental breakdown at ten in the morning at Florean Fortescue’s on the first day of the year, no less, about how her social and family life is imploding around her like a first year’s unattended cauldron and the startling but ever-present reminder that she is all alone in this world.

Apart from all that, everything was absolutely splendiferous.

In fact, Hermione Granger was better than fine. Today, she was starting her new internship at Wrightwise Legal Consultancy where she was going to learn and practice Magical Law. Thus accomplishing the first step in her comprehensive five year plan to aid and eventually champion the rights of House Elves, Werewolves, Muggle-born witches and wizards alike.

When she had started out working at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she had such high hopes. Believing that she could legislate meaningful change from within the Ministry. But after a full year’s tenure where the most she could say for her professional achievements was learning how draw out fifteen minutes of meaningless paperwork into a full day’s occupation. She finally had to admit to herself that it might be time to explore more productive less bureaucratically stifling alternatives.

Hermione had first come across Wrightwise Consultancy through a bit of offhand news from Harry. Apparently the law firm had successfully won a wrongful death lawsuit for Andromeda Tonks’ late husband against the Ministry itself. As although it was snatchers that were responsible for Ted Tonk’s murder, it was argued that these rogue bandits were in fact under Ministry orders despite the public front that they were unaffiliated. They were able to get the Ministry to take legal culpability for their gross misconduct during the war and monetary compensation for Andromeda, something Harry had told her that was sorely needed as now the witch is full time carer to her grandson Teddy.

After a bit of independent research, Hermione had found out that the law firm had also won a number of cases in recent years that were directly related to the abuses power in the Ministry and at Hogwarts during Voldemorts’ reign. Including recompense for all those families whose children were tortured and grievously harmed under the Carrow’s ‘lessons’. And reparations were met for several children who were turned by Fenrir Greyback to a life of lycanthropy. They had even represented the Creevey family for the wrongful death of Colin during the final battle. An achievement that was essentially unheard of at the Wizengamot given the Ministry’s proactive choice to exclude muggles entirely from its chambers and proceedings, let alone defend their rights.

It was from then on that the seventeen year old Hermione Granger had to eat her words. Because far from her former preconceptions that Magical Law was yet another cog in the inner machinations of a system set against witches like her (Because Merlin, not even two years have passed since the Wizengamot was imprisoning witches and wizards under the Muggleborn Registration Act) Wrightwise Co. had actually done more good in the world than she had ever managed from her dusty little cubical.

She had written a letter to express her admiration for all their work and convey her wishes to implement change just as successfully as they had done in the past years and promptly received an owl back within the week offering her a chance to do just that. To learn Magical Law and to help people and magical creatures alike through the real tangible work of campaigning for Wizarding Rights and social justice. One case at a time.  
She had accepted at once.

Because Hermione was going to stop at nothing to get what she had been fighting for ever since she was fourteen years old. When she had first learnt of all the injustices and prejudiced that the magical world had had for millennia, left wholly undisputed. She was going to fight and she was going to make people care.

She had to. For all the Dobby’s. For the Charity Burbage’s. For the Remus’.

The discrimination had to stop.

And she would be damned it she sat by and just watched it all happen again.

So come Monday morning Hermione readied herself for the rest of her professional life. She drank her muggle coffee. She wore her muggle workwear. A drab but entirely appropriate ensemble of a white and grey blouse, blazer and pencil skirt matched with a sensible, brown coat and one inch heels. And flooed to Diagon Alley to walk the last steps of her journey down the street to Aintree Avenue, to her new place of employment.

As she walked down Diagon amongst a throng of other witches and wizards returning to work for the New Year, she outright ignored the brick archway outside the Leaky Cauldron. She deliberately looked the other way when she walked past Fortescue’s. She was going to work. She was going to make a difference.

She could not think about that now.

She wouldn’t. 

  


* * *

  


_Twenty two hours prior…_

The first thing Hermione noticed upon entering Fortescue’s was Ginny sitting at their usual table in the corner with a pleasant outlook of the street below from the frosted, fairy light adorned windows. She had the most god awful grin planted on her face.

Hermione knew what this was about.

She walked over and sat down, feeling as though a full grown erumpent had taken residence in her stomach.

Ginny nodded to her coyly as greeting. Still grinning.

“Do you want to order food first or just jump right on into it?”

“We can wait,” she said simply, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed casually. That insufferably smug expression still on her face.

Apparently she was intent on making Hermione squirm so she pretended to peruse the menu with what she hoped was an expression of unperturbed interest. They sat in silence till their orders had been levitated to the table. Hermione fiddled with a napkin while Ginny’s gaze didn’t break from her.

Hermione allowed herself one sip of her coffee before caving into her friend’s silent challenge. Trying not to grimace at the taste of the wizarding world’s poor attempt to replicate a flat white. For all their magic, apparently no one had yet to work out the proper foam to coffee ratio. She really needed to start ordering tea when she was in Diagon.

She sighed, “Go on, I know you want to.”

“You mean you don’t want to start by telling me about your rendezvous with a certain Slytherin Prince?”

She scoffed.

“I knew Ron would go barging off to tell you and Harry the second he left. God, he can be such an unmitigated arse sometimes...”

“True. But please, do go on. It’s always hard to make sense of his ravings when he’s on a jealous rampage.”

Hermione sighed and tried to collect all her willpower not to scream. Or cry.

_I mean did they really have to have this conversation?_

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told Ron this morning, although apparently he was unable to hear me through that thick head of his. Yes, Malfoy stayed the night at my flat. No, we did not have sex. No, we are not in a secret relationship. I simply allowed him to stay in apartment so he wouldn’t be left for dead outside the Leaky on account of his own blaring stupidity.” Ginny watched her impassively as she sipped her coffee, so she pressed on, “He was a complete mess, Ginny, I mean have you seen today’s Prophet? I was just being civil. I can’t believe Ron would ever believe for a second there was anything else going on between us.”

Ginny put on an expression of faux shock.

“What? You mean you didn’t leap at the opportunity to take that blond bull by the horns last night and ride him till dawn, like Ron alleged you had?”

Hermione made a choked gagging sound as she went to sip her coffee.

“Didn’t try to expecto his patronum?”

“God- please stop.”

“Didn’t let him slither-in to your chamber of secrets?”

Ginny’s eyebrows wiggled surreptitiously as she continued listing off a series of probably well-rehearsed innuendos.

“Merlin, Ginny you are so vulgar sometimes. How can you even put those kind of sentiments in the same sentence with someone like _Malfoy_?”

“Because despite being an absolute prick he was always an attractive one at that. Quite a few girls in my year had a crush on him. I think Demelza Robins even tried to slip him a love potion at one point in his morning pumpkin juice,” she chuckled.

Hermione shook her head, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, at least once?”

Hermione tried to scoff but couldn’t stop the blush creeping up her neck as the involuntary memory of admiring him that morning rose to the surface. How despite being a complete and utter train wreck of a wizard, he still had the audacity to look like he was carved from marble by a Roman sculptor. _The prat._

Ginny laughed gleefully when she saw the look of guilt in her eye.

“You _have_! Haven’t you?”

“No!”

Ginny cackled.

“I bloody well knew it. You both always had that ‘opposites attract’ vibe going on.”

“We did not!”

Hermione huffed indignantly, abandoning all pretence of eating her waffles.

“Did too,” Ginny stabbed a strawberry with her fork and popped it into her mouth, “Always fighting and trying to one up the other in wordplay or your grades…”

“I fought with Ron too-“

“No, that was different. You fought with Ron because he has the emotional intelligence of a blast-ended skrewt,” she said matter-of-factly, cutting into her pancakes. “But whenever you fought with Malfoy it was something else entirely. You’d get all hot and bothered every time you came back from Prefect meetings with him and make me sit through point for point on everything he said to you versus everything you should have said back to him. Practically pacing the dormitory like a centaur in heat.”

“So? He was a knob and I needed to let off some steam-“

“That might have been the case if it wasn’t such a regular occurrence. Sometimes you’d be worse than Harry harping on about him, I swear. And don’t even get me started on sixth year. With all that faux altruistic concern of yours that he was ‘looking rather ill’ and ‘not himself’, as you so charitably put it.”

“Well I had right reason to then, didn’t I? He was under orders of one of the evilest wizards of all time!”

Ginny rolled her eyes and looked at her in exasperation. Like she was having to explain something rather obvious to a small child and had to spell it out for her.

“The point is you noticed him,” then her expression softened, and she paused in her breakfast, “You always noticed him, Hermione.”

She scoffed.

“What utter rubbish. I think I’d know if I fancied Malfoy.”

“Whatever. All I’m saying is that there’s a thin line between love and hate.”

Hermione physically recoiled. Letting her fork clatter to the table.

“Love?! Who said anything about love? You’re being completely ridiculous.”

Ginny chuckled at her theatrics, shaking her head.

“You know, sometimes I used to hate Harry. He’d always be looking the other way and treating me like Ron’s little sister. Surprised when I not only knew how to cast a spell or fly a broom, but that I could do it ten times better than him. And by the time it took him to properly notice me, I was already with someone else. He could be so infuriating like that.”

Her tone was as chastising as Molly’s but Hermione saw her eyes gleam at the memory.

“But then I realised it wasn’t that I hated him at all, I was just frustrated that I could see what was always there between us and he needed the extra time to catch up,” then she chuckled, “But I suppose I can’t blame him for that either, I was always the quicker one.”

Hermione stilled and surveyed her friend.

In all those years together sharing a dorm, whispering secrets from their beds in the dead of night, she had never heard Ginny talk about Harry like this. Of course, she knew Ginny always fancied him but it never went beyond the usual exchange of boy talk. It was never in an adoring or profound fashion…

But still, to even draw a comparison between Harry and Ginny to herself and Malfoy. She couldn’t help but cross her arms like a petulant child. _The nerve._

“That’s different. You and Harry were different. I bet Harry never called you a mudblood or hit you with a _Densaugeo_ in fourth year…”

“I thought that hex was an accident. Wasn’t he aiming at Harry?”

“That’s not the point.”

Hermione huffed.

“The point is. Malfoy and I… It’s just different, ok? I can’t believe I even have to explain this to you.”

“Alright, alright. I was just teasing, Mione’. Relax. I know you’d never be stupid enough to go after someone like Malfoy,” Ginny continued on with her pancakes, pouring a sickening amount of syrup on to her plate. “Now, would you like to hear about everything that went down last night? You missed quite the pantomime.”

Hermione shifted uneasily in her chair. She’d been dreading this all morning. But ever the astute friend, Ginny caught on to her discomfort and changed tact immediately.

“Hermione, did you actually think that if you and Ron broke up that you would lose any of us?”

She cast her head down and prodded the blueberries with her fork, moving them around her plate idly. “It’s just that… I know it’s been a hard few years. For your family especially and the way your mum goes on about Ron and I, well I just didn’t want to be the cause of any more disappointments...”

“Were you actually planning to stay together with Ron because you were scared of upsetting my mother?” she asked incredulously.

Hermione baulked. She hadn’t realised how pathetic her explanation sounded till just now, even if it had been partly true.

She shook her head, “I thought if we planned it out right. If Ron and I just _faded_. It wouldn’t be such an ordeal.”

“On the contrary. Now Ron will forever be remembered as that tosser who cheated on _the_ Hermione Granger during the family NYE party. Merlin, he’ll never live that down by the way. But if you had just let the relationship dwindle, mum would probably pester you and Ron both into the next century with all kinds of impertinent questions. At least now you have an outwardly valid reason for everyone to understand the breakup. No one will blame you.”

Hermione conceded that the witch did kind of have a point there. But still, she didn’t want Ron to be the one to suffer the burden of break up when she was the one who wanted to end things. It wasn’t fair on him.

Ron. Who was one of her oldest friends. The boy who saved her from a troll in the girl’s bathrooms, first year. Who’d always leapt to her defence against bigots in the magical world, completely unasked. Who rode on the back of a dragon with her, never letting go of her hand because he knew how much she hated flying…

Now she was going to repay all that with turning his family against him.

And worse than that she was seen with Malfoy. Lord knows the Weasley’s hate that family on principle. But Ron. He loathes them. Especially Draco Malfoy.

He was going to hate her.

She swallowed thickly and stared at the grain of the café table. Willing her eyes to focus on the patterns of the wood and not blur over with the tears she was desperately trying to suppress.

“Hermione… are you alright? …Gods I’m sorry I should never have-”

A chair scraped and footsteps receded.

Her breathe stuttered in her throat.

That familiar pressure between her ears began intensifying. The outside world muffled by the sound of her erratic heart beat and pumping blood.

She’s supposed to count her breathes during a panic attack. She knows this like she knows Golpalott's Third Law or Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. It’s a simple, unalterable bit of knowledge that cannot be overridden or bent by one’s emotion or will.

But the logical side of her brain is currently inaccessible.

She closes her eyes and slowly rocks back and forth, her arms wrapped around her middle. Waiting for that rationality she’s so renowned for to come back to her.

Hermione doesn’t open her eyes again until she hears the crisp scrape of a glass of water sliding across the table in front of her. The sound momentarily jerking her from the café surrounds into a drawing room with a fake sword, a cursed blade and grimy black curls…

No that’s not right.

She blinks again. Hard.

And Ginny is back.

She’s rubbing small circles on her shoulder blade.

“I’m sorry. That was my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Hermione sniffled.

Apparently she had been crying. Her eyes felt thoroughly abused. Hot and wet and sore.

She was always an ugly crier. Some lingering scrap of insecurity buried beneath all the fear and pain at the forefront of her mind, rose to the surface. Hopefully she hadn’t made too much noise as she wept.

She grabbed a napkin to pat away the dampness on her cheeks.

“I was just so… so scared of losing anyone else. I can’t- go through that again. I can’t lose any more family.”

The voice she hears is small and childlike. A detached part of her knows that it’s her voice. Her logic must be coming back.

She gingerly takes a sip of water.

“Is this about what happened with… your parents? Over Christmas?”

God no, She could not think about that now too.

She shook her head obstinately in reply.

Ginny reached for her hand in her lap and gave it a squeeze, “You have us, Hermione. Always.”

Ginny didn’t stop clutching her hand till she looked her in the eye, needing the visual confirmation that Hermione had truly received her words.

She managed a small smile.

“Won’t ever be rid of us, I’m afraid. There’s permanent sticking charm on all those unfortunate enough to dare befriend a Weasley.”

She let out a shaky laugh and wiped at her eyes.

“Or in my case, fortunate.”

Ginny kneels by her side for God knows how long. Holding her hand. Rubbing her back.

She’s not sure how long it takes before they are both resuming their brunch either, but her waffles are cold. And there are more customers in the café. The background noise of people shuffling off coats, cutlery clatter and conversation emerges from the periphery.

“I’m sorry, Ginny I didn’t mean to-“

“There is nothing to be sorry for.”

She nodded and continued on with her breakfast. Trying to think of a way to redirect the conversation away from her sad, little existence into less troubled waters.

“So, what did happen after I left?”

“Well I’d only just missed you leaving but Ron and Lavender were still going at it so I-“

“…Hang on, where were you during the countdown?”

“Oh, that.” Ginny exchanged a dark look, “Harry’s cousin, Dudley, wandered off to Regulus’ old room and found a boggart in the closet. Me and Andromeda had to talk him down from an episode. Poor thing.”

“Good Godric, what was the boggart?”

Ginny’s brows furrowed in confusion, “I don’t know exactly. But it was a scary looking bloke. Had claws instead of hands. Gnarled skin… And a fedora. Striped red shirt...”

“Mmm… probably Freddy Krueger. That’s understandable, actually.”

“Who?”

“It’s a muggle thing,” Hermione said sipping her cold, bitter tasting coffee, “We really need to recommence our movie nights.”

  


* * *

  


By the afternoon Hermione had acclimatised to her new occupation so well she had quite forgotten any of the past anxieties of the last twenty four hours. It was exactly what she had been missing. Why hadn’t she realised it sooner?

When Hermione Granger had a problem she went to the library. She read and researched and practically burrowed herself between the pages of old tomes and textbooks.

The profession of a law clerk felt no different.

After meeting all the staff and having a brief tour of the office, Hermione was left to grapple with her new work. She was tasked with compiling case files, preparing legal documents for the Wizengamot, conducting preliminary research for new cases and adding it to reports. Everything had a system that could not be circumvented. No detail was too small to afford escaping one’s notice.

And it all felt so achingly familiar.

The stringent organisational structures. The strict schedules and looming deadlines. The reading. Page after page after page.

She had missed it.

She became so engrossed in her work that she had practically finished a week’s worth clerical duties by lunchtime.

Mr Wrightwise – a rotund and fatherly wizard who reminded her so much of Albus Dumbledore, it hurt – was so impressed with her progress, he allowed her to study the office’s impressive collection of volumes on magical law for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t till half past three when she was interrupted from her reading by a Claire O'Connell, the front desk secretary, a perky woman Hermione had already pegged to be the office gossip, popped her head round the corner and interrupted her examination of _Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans_ that Hermione wholly remembered she was actually here to work.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Wrightwise has a consultation with a new client in his office in five minutes. He thought you might benefit from shadowing the proceedings and taking notes.”

“Absolutely, tell him I’ll be right there.”

Hermione walked to her boss’ office with a bounce in her step. It was only her first official day and she was already doing more than her superiors had ever expected her to do at the Ministry.

She was going to learn Magical law. She was going to become a barrister and defend the rights of the downtrodden and neglected. She was going to make a difference.

Minor hiccups aside, she knew this was going to be her year.

Mr. Wrightwise met her outside the office door, “Miss Granger, thank you for coming. I’ll be requiring you to take the minutes of this meeting.” He handed her a clipboard and a self-inking quill.

“Oh, is that a standard practice for initial consultations?”

“Not standard no, but I think it best for a client such as this that we have a record of the proceedings – we want everything to be above board here. Leave no room for… _misunderstandings_.”

Hermione blanched.

_What kind of meeting was she heading into…_

“There is no need to concern yourself, Miss Granger, my business is entirely legitimate. We take on clients not only deserving of help but of those who cannot find their voices represented elsewhere. This case is no different.”

Slightly mollified, albeit still apprehensive, Hermione followed her boss into his office.

If it wasn’t for the fact that she had seen that exact crop of white hair no more than a day ago, she might have been allowed a moment of confusion as to who sat across from Mr. Wrightwise’ desk.

As it were, she knew exactly who it was as she crossed the threshold.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

_“What are you doing here!?”_

They had both blurted out simultaneously.

At least, Malfoy had the good grace to look as unsettled by this predicament as she was right now. He stood up from his chair and stepped back slightly affronted as he took her in. His eyes cataloguing her person and most likely taking in the absurd improbability of reconnecting with each other for a second time, not yet two days into the New Year.

“Oh good you both know each other, so no introductions are in order. Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger is our new clerk, she’ll be taking record of this meeting, as she is newly interning with our firm.”

“Is that necessary?” he bit out.

“I have all employees write transcripts of all meetings at this firm as an official formality. It can help when a case needs review before it goes to trial. …Will that be a problem for you today, sir?

It clearly _was_ a problem but he shook his courteously and consented to the proceedings anyway before resuming his seat.

Wrightwise closed the door and crossed the room to sit in his chair, the frame creaking slightly under his robust figure. He gestured for Hermione to take the spare seat across from his desk. The seat directly next to Malfoy.

She stifled the impulse to just bolt and remembered that she was a professional human who could do adult things. Merlin, she had been situations a hundred times more horrifying and challenging than this. _You’re being ridiculous._ Her inner voice chided.

Regardless, she walked over the chair with a rising sense of trepidation. Expecting hexes to fly across the room at any second. As she sat, she noted she was about an arm span away from Malfoy. That was good at least. She’d know if he went to reach for his wand.

Hermione could tell from the rigidity of his frame he was just as violently uncomfortable with this situation as she was. But he looked much better than yesterday morning. More clean, less battered. No hints of bruising on the face. Just pale, white skin. Neatly combed hair.

And mercifully, he didn’t smell this time. She could only pick up a subtle waft of that masculine cologne he wore. Was it cedar wood? Definitely an earthy scent that she couldn’t quite place but felt as though it was on the tip of tongue…

_**“You always noticed him, Hermione.”**_

Hermione cursed the very existence of the name Ginevra Molly Weasley as she prepared herself to take notes for the meeting.

“I was surprised by your owl, Mr. Malfoy. How can I help you today?”

Malfoy’s glanced at Hermione before clearing his throat and adjusting his sitting stance to something more dignified in countenance.

“I need legal counsel on a _difficult_ predicament I find myself in.”

Mr. Wrightwise inclined his head as nonverbal approval to continue.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Eyes momentarily darting to her before sighing in defeat, “I want to sue my parents for forcing me into a marital contract without my consent.”

An incredulous scoff escaped Hermione’s lips before she had sense to conceal it. Her hand rising to cover her mouth in shock.

Mr. Wrightwise shot her a piercing look before turning his gaze back to his client.

_Right. Professional. Be professional._

“As I was saying, my parents, or mostly my mother it would seem, have fashioned a marital contract between the Malfoy family and the Greengrass’ without either of my or my intended’s permission.”

“And who is to be your intended?”

“Astoria Greengrass. She is not yet seventeen and still at school. Therefore unable to consent to the agreement or dispute it.”

“But that’s totally barbaric!”

Again the words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back. This time outrage, not disbelief won over any sense of professionalism.

“Well it is…” she said again in a smaller voice.

Mr. Wrightwise gave Hermione a look which roughly translated to _‘Please obstain from any further interjections it is highly unprofessional,’_ or in layman’s terms, _‘Do shut the fuck up.’_

Malfoy cleared his throat, “Yes, well, I agree with Miss Granger’s sentiments and therefore wish to pursue every legal possibility I can to prohibit the union taking place.”

“It is a magical contract, I assume?”

“Of course-”

“Drawn up by the parentages of both families.”

“Yes…”

“Blood magic?”

Malfoy brows rose above his fringe.

“… How did you know?”

“It was a common practice in Pureblood circles up till the early 1900s. I assume that’s why you are chasing down your legal rights in the matter. Blood magic used to merge two households cannot be undone easily.”

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, “Then you’ll know it makes both my parents and Astoria’s the soul authors to this contract. None of the terms can be superseded till both Astoria and I are of age to control our inheritances and take over familial duties.”

“And when will Astoria turn eighteen?”

“The 14th of April… Next year.”

“And the wedding is due to be when exactly?”

“The contract stipulates September the 18th of this year to be date of the binding.”

Wrightwise’s posture fell slightly at this news, pinching his nose and furrowing his brows as he took in the information.

“So that means…”

“Neither I or Astoria can renege the marriage in time, yes. And divorce is not an option, as I’m sure a barrister like yourself would know all too well about that particular aspect of the Pureblood custom,” Hermione could actually feel the bitterness exude from Malfoy’s tongue as he spoke. She almost recoiled.

But Wrightwise merely nodded in agreement. Clearly wearied by the mere mention of that topic.

“Mr. Malfoy…”

“Draco. Please.”

“Draco, then,” he inclined his head, “You seem to be well versed in the various stipulations of Pureblood marriages bound by blood magic. So you would know full well that marital contracts of this nature do not require the consent of either of the betrothed. They are not romantic unions. They are agreements that bind households with the sole objective of ensuring there is a _clean_ magical bloodline that endures into the next generation.”

Malfoy’s postured slouched. Or what could be considered slouching for someone who was raised with impeccable pureblood propriety.

“I’m sorry but I can’t help you. There are no legal grounds you can pursue in court as there are no laws that prohibit this practice.”

“I heard this branch only takes on special cases. For those wizards who cannot find help elsewhere…”

“You are correct. I have always set out for this business to put the welfare of our society first. Be it wizards, muggles or magical creature…”

“I can’t imagine it is always lucrative though. Obviously if you were to take on my case, you would be most handsomely compensated. I’d even consider becoming a primary shareholder-“

“It is not a matter of money-“

Wrightwise spoke with as much indignation as Hermione felt in that very moment.

“Please. You needn’t defend me yourself, I know the clientele you usually take on and that _people like me_ usually fall into the category of the prosecution not the defendant. But I need something… any kind of lead to go on… I cannot let this union take place.”

Never in her life did Hermione Granger think she would hear Draco Malfoy beg. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she thought it would be. Pathetic and desperate, yes. But the details of his position were frankly too mortifying for her to register any other emotion other than pity at the current moment. Merlin, and she thought her family was messed up…

Wrightwise eyes glimmered with sympathy and it was with this sight that Hermione felt the horrible sinking sensation that he was going to feel obliged to help Malfoy. God help him, she knew all too well what that might entail.

“As I said, there are no legal precedents for your situation that I would be able to take to court, however,” Malfoy rose up in his chair slightly, “I will extend the courtesy to research on marriage law in regards to blood magic and see if there are any avenues worth exploring. If not in legal footings, perhaps magic will hold the answer instead. In the meantime, I strongly suggest you apply to your parents and your betrothed’s to reconsider the nuptials. They are after all the only ones who can terminate such a contract.”

Malfoy snorted and seemed momentarily surprised the noise had exited from his person. He readjusted his demeanour to something more suitably gracious and reached out to shake Wrightwise’s hand.

“Thank you for your time. Of course, I will greatly appreciate any input you may have on the matter.”

He made to exit the room.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Please, just let him exit the room.

“Please, call me Draco.”

“Excuse me, Draco. It is just that I have had a rather ingenious idea, I flatter myself, they do come to me from time to time. But Miss Granger here, although new has shown an aptitude for the study of law and is adept a researcher as I have ever seen, though I have not known her long. She is worthy of her title, _Brightest Witch of Her Age_ , I believe.”

Hermione’s blush was currently reaching _Fiendfyre_ levels of heat.

“Therefore, I will grant her with this task of researching your case. I think you will find, like I have, that she is more than capable at scouring books and quick to find results. And I confess, she will be able to dedicate her time to this task more comprehensively than I would be able to at the present.”

She could hear Malfoy’s clothing rumple slightly from behind her. Fidgeting as he weighed up his options.

The door is right there. Just three more steps away...

“You know what, Mr. Wrightwise. I think you’re right. I’ll extend my correspondence to Granger here for any future updates on my case.”

_Oh, for the love of God._

“Excellent. I’ll trust you to handle the details from here on out Miss Granger.”

He stood to show Malfoy out the door and Hermione looked down to her clipboard. Completely devoid of all notes she had been instructed to take.

Hermione stood from her seat and followed the wizards out. Seething.

_Why? Why me?_

Malfoy turned and inclined his head to her, “I look forward to hearing from you Granger,” he smirked.

He was going to give her a hard time. She just knew it. She had eight years’ experience in this exact scenario to already expect it of him. She grabbed his wrist, none too gently and all but dragged him down the office hallway, “Let me show you the way out.”

She stomped past the supply closet door and made an impulse decision. A reckless decision really, but she was going to deal with this right here and now.

_Screw Professionalism._

Hermione wrenched open the door and hauled a bewildered Malfoy inside. He made sounds to protest her manhandling but she ignored him. Following him inside and slamming the door closed.

“Granger, why have you dragged me into a supply closet?”

“Because I’m mad at you and I-“ she scrambled her way through stacks of unfiled boxes of paperwork to make more room for them both in the cramped space, then cast a quick _silencio_ , “…need to yell at you in private so I don’t get fired on my first day for physically assaulting a client.”

She probably could have chosen a more appropriate place for this conversation but by all the Gods, both muggle and magical, a fury the likes of a tempest was coursing through her blood and she would say her piece.

“You seem to be making it a habit to kidnap me and force me into small, confined…” he grimaced as he dusted off a cobweb that had caught in his hair, “unsanitary places.”

She ignored his barb.

“Malfoy. Why would someone with all your galleons want to hire the services of a law firm that strictly deals with marginalised and low income clientele? Don’t you have a whole team of smarmy lawyers at your beck and call?”

“You don’t think I tried that first? No one wants to touch my case. There all go scampers as soon as they understand what I’m asking them to do. Unlike this place, they all know they’ll lose more than just a legal argument if they take on people like my parents.”

“Then why shouldn’t I just march right up to Mr. Wrightwise right now and tell him what’s at stake?”

“Because you complete and utter ninny hammer-“

_“Did-you-just-call-me-a-ninny-hammer?”_

“-My father is in jail. My mother is in over her head. And the Greengrass’ won’t dare intervene if I kick up a fuss. They won’t want the bad publicity.”

“Well, I don’t want Wrightwise Consulting to have bad press either. It’s hard enough finding justice for the fringes of wizarding society in the Wizengamot without poncy Pureblood politics coming into play too.”

“Look, we can keep this all under wraps, yes? My mother and father needn’t know till the ink has dried on their letter of court summons that their son is going to sue them. I am more than willing to significantly reimburse this firm for their troubles. Don’t tell me your boss wouldn’t appreciate that?”

Hermione seethed.

Hand itching to grip her wand and just hex his entitled little face off.

“Besides, doesn’t it warm the cockles of your bleeding, ‘save all souls’, Gryffindor heart to assist a helpless young man in such a dire situation, like myself,” he simpered sardonically.

“No, it bloody well does not warm my heart to know that instead of helping wizards and witches who are actually in need of our assistance to challenge laws that discriminate against them. I am going to be forced to waste my time with a spoiled, little, rich boy who doesn’t have the balls to just tell his mother to go fuck off!”

Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Due to her insult or the use of obscenity or the fact that she had poked her finger into his chest repeatedly with every word she spoke, she couldn’t be entirely sure. But there was something in his expression that she had never seen before.

Something almost resembling mild respect.

“If I do that I’ll surely be destitute. They’ll cut me off. I’ll be without a home or knut to my name.”

“So? What’s so bad about that? You’ll get the freedom you so desperately want to make your own choices and you’ll finally learn to live a life where everything isn’t just handed to you a silver platter. It’d be good for you, Malfoy.”

He paused for a moment. Looking into her eyes thoughtfully.

Maybe she had gotten through to him after all…

“I’d still prefer to keep my galleons if I can help it.”

Hermione groaned in frustration.

The heat of her rage stoking into something more murderous.

But it didn’t help either that they were so close to each other either. Their bodies radiated warmth in the cramped closet. Sweat collecting on her brows. Their breathes intermingling and laboured. The smell of that cologne, whatever it was, rendered her momentarily into a dazed dream-like state.

Malfoy parted his lips and her eyes darted to the movement.

_Go on. Say it._

Suddenly, the door swung open. Claire O’Connell was at the threshold and Hermione could almost see the delight shimmer in her eyes at the secretary finding another colleague in such a compromising situation. Both of them standing mere inches away from each other, previously hidden from prying eyes, the silencio charm still in full effect…

She brandished her wand and with a flick cancelled the spell.

“Claire, I was just… discussing with Mr. Malfoy here the particulars of his case. We-”

She grinned deviously, “Mmm-hmm.”

Godric, if she knew the new millennium was going to entail such new levels of mortification for her she might have just opted to stay in bed this morning and sleep until further notice.

“We needed some privacy. I do not wish for the details of my case to become public knowledge as of yet, Miss Granger, and I expect these proceedings to be just between ourselves and Mr. Wrightwise if necessary.”

Hermione almost jumped at the sound of Malfoy addressing her. Of Malfoy helping her? Surely not. What kind of bizarre alternative universe did she wake up to this morning?

Claire looked slightly mollified by this response but her eyes still sparkled as she turned to Hermione. She wasn’t off the hook yet.

“The conference room is just down the hall to the left, for future reference, Miss Granger. I believe I already showed it to you on our tour this morning.”

She could feel another blush work its way up her neck and onto her cheeks.

“Erm… Yes, I’ll be sure to remember that, thank you Claire.”

A pause. And then Hermione remembered herself and went to show Malfoy out.

This time pointedly not grabbing his wrist.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should really be split into two, it's that long. And there isn't a great amount of Dramione going on till the end - so fair warning. But I honestly couldn't help myself, Draco's POV is too fun to write. 
> 
> I'm curious to see if this extended format worked or not. If it was boring or interesting to read? My blindsight as a writer has always been not picking up on where a plot lags or gets stilted. Its tricky when I've read it over so many times it just morphs into this one thing where every detail seems essential and I can't bare to part with any of it. 
> 
> But I hope to get back on track to a more regular posting schedule now that I've plotted out the story and established most of the characters arcs. Hopefully I can contain the word count moving forward as well. 
> 
> Next update will be a week from now *fingers crossed*
> 
> To anyone reading hope you are safe, happy and well. And thanks for reading xx

_January 8th, 2000_

Astoria Greengrass likes crups. 

That was the only tid-bit of information Malfoy had gleaned in the last twenty-seven minutes of sitting with her and his mother in Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop. He had mentally checked out after conversation devolved into Astoria describing the names of her five consecutive pets and each of their personalities in extremely vivid detail. Instead opting to spend his time alternating between cordial nods when he was addressed by either of the women and glaring at the lace doily tablecloth when he was not. 

He had clearly underestimated his mother. He should have known someone who can lie to the Dark Lord point blank would be able to orchestrate such a meeting without his suspecting. Evidently, Narcissa intended on thrusting him into every social situation humanly possible with his wife to be. Hogwarts classes no boundary. 

In all fairness, he should have known when she had asked him to chaperone her to _Gladrags Wizardwear_ to pick up an order of ‘pantyhose’ that something was amiss. Since when did his mother deign to go out to pick up anything herself when an elf could do the job in a split. 

But she had propositioned the outing this morning by dangling the proverbial olive branch before him. Words like _‘I overstepped…’_ and _‘we’ll work through this together, as a family…’_ had been proffered to him over the breakfast table with tea and crumpets, and Salazar help him, he believed them.

He chose to trust his mother. 

He was an idiot. 

Once Narcissa had walked out of the apparel shop with a suspiciously light shopping bag, she had asked him if they might stop for refreshments as she was _‘feeling rather faint.’_ It wasn’t till he held the door open for her to the tearoom that he realised what she had done. 

Astoria sat at an empty four-seater table, hands neatly clasped in her lap, suitably demure in all appearances excepting an anxious look in the eye that no Pureblood etiquette training could quite stamp out. 

She stood out like a sore thumb amongst the other patrons. The shop was packed with rambunctious Hogwarts students today, many paired together, barely restraining themselves from snogging or full-on groping over the tabletops. He recalled fleetingly that Madam Puddifoot’s was the established stomping ground for young and budding couples. 

A distant memory of Pansy dragging him to sit and have tea with her in fifth year rose to mind. She was intent on making a show of their new relationship (i.e biweekly frottage appointments behind the Greenhouse) by caressing his hand over the table and batting her eyelashes at him an excessive amount. He’d put a great deal of effort into avoiding her in the halls and common room after that particular outing.

But how Narcissa thought this environment might be the appropriate place to properly meet his intended for the first time when teenagers were sticking their tongues down each other’s throat, he had no idea. 

Although knowing his mother perhaps she’d hope the tea shop’s reputation might be conducive to romance. Salazar almighty could his life be any more of a fucking joke?

“…Don’t you agree, Darling?”

“Hmm? …oh yes, of course.”

“Excellent. We would love to have you and your family round for tea sometime soon. Draco is ever so proficient in piano, do you play…”

He risked another glance at the grandfather clock tucked in the corner. Twenty-eight minutes and counting. 

A badly supressed yawn which came out as more of a forceful blowing of air through his nostrils, caused his mother to send a reprimanding glare his way. But she made no comment of his overt display of boredom, instead choosing to ask Astoria if she had any musical inclinations. 

He continued inspecting the tablecloth.

At least this would be a one-off occasion, he’d make sure of it. Astoria had resumed her classes at Hogwarts and would be too consumed in her studies for N.E.W.T’s to manage outings like this every other weekend. His mother was crafty but even she would have to work a rather skilled _imperio_ to manage any more than a few visitations with the poor girl.

Visitations he would flat out refuse to attend. 

Other than that, there was the Easter Break where he’d wager a great deal of galleons that both his mother and the Greengrass’ would try their damnedest to coordinate a luncheon or picnic, on the prerequisite of all getting to know each other better _before the big day._

And then after that… Astoria would be graduating. 

And his bachelorhood would soon be coming to an end… 

Merlin’s balls, his mother had really done a number on him. 

He had found the marital contract first thing after their little chat on New Year’s Day. She hadn’t even gone to the trouble to hide it from him. It sat in the first draw of her writing desk, the ink glossy and red, written in the blood of his mother, father and Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass. 

Blood magic.

His rage which had thus far that morning been put on the backburner at a low simmer began to bubble and boil over with the discovery. 

_How dare they?_

How dare his parents commit to something so final without even consulting him? And how could the Greengrass’ agree to something so archaic… so barbaric? They had all schemed and performed an ancient magical rite right under his nose and for what? 

Draco Malfoy was no fool. He knew the responsibilities of being one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. That one day he would have to wed appropriately to ensure the magical line continued unsullied, regardless of his own feelings on the matter. 

He was never thrilled about the idea, of equating Pureblood wizards and witches into nothing more than desirable stock to reared and bred. But hell, he would have at least been amenable to it someday down the line, if his parents hadn’t already felt the need to completely snooker him into it. 

At least he knew _when_ the arrangement had taken place. His father would have to be present to perform such a ritual. So, it had been decided before the end of the war, at least. But how many years ago exactly? There was no date provided with their signatures. Just the tell-tale taint of magic humming underneath the paper’s surface.

Maybe it was arranged since their births. He wouldn’t put it past any of them at this point. But they had a whole lifetime, his whole life, to inform him of the arrangement… why would they conceal it from him till now? 

It made no bloody sense. 

It made even less sense for the Greengrass’ to agree to a contract like this… hadn’t his mother called them ‘liberal minded’? Well what liberal minded family would agree to their daughter being associated with a family such as his? Forget that, what kind of family would consent to performing this kind of blood pact. 

His stomach lurched uneasily, and he tried to swallow down bile as he stared at the contract. Made physically ill by the material proof of their betrayal and the revelation of how far they were all willing to go to commit to said betrayal on the perverse obligation of upholding their ‘great and noble’ lineages. 

He spent the entirety of his first day of the year attempting every which way to destroy the damn thing. He tried tearing it to pieces with his hands, crumpling it and throwing it in the fire, casting every spell he knew at it, twice. Each attempt proving just as fruitless as the last. The parchment repaired itself seamlessly each time, not even a smudge or tear was able to blemish the spotless document. Evidently, his mother did all but make an unbreakable vow to ensure that this wedding took place. 

He cast a few more _incendios_ at it just to have some small satisfaction of seeing the contract on fire, regardless if it bared no effect to its destruction. 

He then spent the entire night in the library. Researching marriage law, Pureblood entitlements and blood magic. Combing through undisturbed tomes that were at least five centuries old, considering the fragility of the pages, almost translucent under his fingertips. Some of the books were so imbued with dark magic that he began to taste ash in his throat, his veins blackening, and skin turning a deathly grey with every word he read. 

He ignored it. That was mere child’s play compared to when the Dark Lord lived in this Manor. 

By dawn he felt like a ghost. Cold and empty and pale. But it was not from his perusals of the dark texts. At least not entirely. It was the realisation that there was nothing. Absolutely nothing he could do to circumvent this arrangement. No loophole or crack in the scheme. His parents had assured it. 

So, his only options remained. Find an alternative partner to absolve the current marital agreement. Or sue the ever-loving shit out of his dear Mama and Papa.

At this point both were looking to be equally unachievable feats. He may as well try apparating to the moon to get out of the engagement. 

He had sent an owl to Pansy. Relating his situation and if she would find it agreeable to be his wife. He received a howler back the next day consisting only of her shrieking laughter. Cackling for a good five minutes before the letter exploded in his face. 

He procured the guest list from the NYE Ball. Writing to every family with an eligible daughter if they would approve a match and the union of their households. But even the most avaricious wizarding families expressed hesitation given his family’s blacklist status these days. Rita Skeeter clearly had far more reach within their world than he cared to admit.

Making his parents dealings with the Greengrass’ all the more impressive. How did they continue to schmooze their way into this arrangement? What did the Greengrass’ have to gain from continuing this union? Or what did they have to hide… 

As muted dawn light streamed in through arch windows of the library, he resolved to get professional help. There was no way marriage contracts like this were still legal, surely. 

He ambled to his father’s study and found the ledger containing all the lawyers and businesses that had been employed for the Malfoy family in the last fifty years. He was already well acquainted with the list. Some names seared to the back of his brain from the war trials that pursued after the final battle. He sent out letters to every single one. And still it wasn’t enough. 

Apparently, his parents have a cut-throat reputation, and no one dare cross them in a courtroom. _Wonder where they got that impression from?_

He widened his search. Criminal barristers. Ministry drones. Specialists in magical contracts and divorce. Every soliciting office within a 100-mile radius received an owl from him that day. And in the end, less than half bothered to reply. 

Wrightwise Legal Consultancy was the only reasonable response he received that didn’t insult him outright or indirectly imply he was death eater scum that deserved a fate far worse than he was currently living. Mr. Wrightwise had written that his owl had intrigued him but was not willing to agree to a take him on till meeting him face to face, and if he would be available for an appointment as early as that afternoon. And he should have known then that this was all too good to be true. 

Of course, Granger worked there. Why wouldn’t she? Why should he have any sliver of a silver-lining in this complete cunt of a situation.

That appointment was the biggest waste of his time, by far. Not even worth a real professional to take a look at his case. He got shoved off to the intern for help. The intern on their first day no less. 

An intern that also happened to hate his guts, and rightfully so, but Merlin, it all really was decidedly hopeless. Every turn he took just felt like fighting against the current. 

Maybe he should have popped inside _Gladrags_ with his mother this morning and gotten a tailor to take his measurements for the wedding robes. Just surrender to the already projected plan of his nuptials now and then occlude for the rest of his sorry life to forget trivial notions like freewill and independence.

“Draco?”

He blinked. 

“Yes mother?”

“I’m have to go powder my nose. But do let Astoria know.”

“…Know what?” 

She directed another scowl his way but passed off a practised laugh for Astoria’s sake to gloss over his social faux pas, “Let her know your preferences on wedding music, of course. The Ganmilton Orchestra is always a satisfactory choice for such an occasion. But you might be tempted by something more exotic… or maybe something more _personal.”_

She raised a suggestive brow at that last word and fucking Merlin preserve him, his mother was planning this exit too, just to give him and Astoria some _alone time._

He looked up to the ceiling. Silently imploring any and all deities out there to just show him some mercy and smite him right there and then in the tea shop amongst the plethora of doilies and tea cosies. There were certainly worse ways to go. 

Astoria cleared her throat. 

“…so, wedding music?”

He shook his head imperceptibly before returning his gaze to the girl sitting across from him. 

Gods, she was so small. So dainty and fresh-faced. He almost felt physically sick again thinking of the life her parents had sold her off to at so young an age. At least that might be a point of connection for them in future discussions. _Hello Astoria, how are your captors… I mean parents? What ways do you choose to cope with being born into a life of ancestral servitude? I find drinking a whole liquor cabinet and then setting antiques on fire usually does the trick._

Well, he wasn’t going play along with this charade while his mother was out of ear shot. 

“How-are-you-ok-with-this?” he blurted.

Astoria blinked. 

“With what?”

“With,” he gestured deliberately between them, as if his question couldn’t be more obvious, “this.”

She put her teacup down slowly. He could almost see her brain frenziedly thinking of how to best respond to the abrupt transition from restrained civility to a topic wholly more genuine. She straightened her posture and wore a pleasant smile before replying,

“Every little girl dreams of their big day, don’t they? Of course, I’m ok with this. I couldn’t be more thrilled.”

He winced at seeing her so dutifully submit to her fate. Lying not only to him but to herself. It was tragic really. He recognised the façade all too well. It was practically identical to when he had just taken the dark mark and told himself that he was proud of it. Excited even. 

“Look, Astoria. You don’t need to lie about this, especially not to me. I’m not going run off and tell your parents that you didn’t put on a convincing show of politesse just because you aren’t happy with this arranged marriage. I don’t want this to happen and I’m sure you don’t want it either.”

She sighed. A finger fiddling with the unused cutlery on the table. Not meeting his gaze for a moment. 

“When did they tell you?” she inquired softly. 

He let out a breath and felt the tension in his shoulders immediately ease. Relief flooding into him that he might be able to talk about this situation to someone who wasn’t completely batshit. 

“About two seconds before you and your whole family met us at the Ball.”

She nodded despondently, “Mine told me the same evening just as we were preparing to apparate to your Manor. Daphne had to hold my arm to keep me upright for the rest of the evening.” 

He could have said any of number of things to that. 

_‘Salazar fucking Slytherin that’s awful’, ‘Our parents are fucked up and we should plan our revenge plot stat’_ or _‘Why don’t we both leave this tacky little tea shop right now, grab a portkey to Brazil and cut our losses why we still have a chance.’_

But what came out was: 

“This is a rather unsatisfactory situation, isn’t it?”

He said it so formally, so understated, that he even surprised himself with his cadence.

He caught Astoria’s eye and they both instantaneously broke out into fits of laughter. A much-needed moment of levity in-between the complete fucking absurdity that was their lives.

They could have looked like any other Hogwarts couple at that café in that moment. Happy and unencumbered by their futures. Just two people enjoying a weekend at Hogsmeade. He let himself buy into the fantasy, if only for a moment. 

“Yes, indeed it is,” she said, wiping away at her eyes. 

At first, he thought it was just a few tears that had leaked out from their outburst but as her giggling subsided, he realised her expression was crumbling right before his eyes. 

And that was when he understood that Astoria was about to cry in public and that he was going to have comfort her… 

He sighed internally. 

He was always shite at this. 

At empathy.

He gingerly reached a hand to pat at her shoulder, cringing at his own visible display of awkwardness. He seized a kerchief from his breast pocket to hand to her. She accepted it and began padding her eyes, trying to conceal her tears from the crowded room by turning to the side. 

“I’m going to try and get them to rescind the contract. I’m going to stop this, Astoria, you don’t need to worry.” 

She scoffed, “There’s no way my parents will cancel this wedding. Believe me, I’ve tried just about every argument with them. They’re adamant.”

Malfoy’s brow quirked in surprise. That certainly wasn’t how he’s mother had framed it. Weren’t the Greengrass’ worried about their image following Skeeter’s write up in the paper last week?

“There are… other avenues I am willing to pursue.”

Both of them are the near impossible avenues of finding another partner willing to wed him in under six months or finding a valid legal argument to sue his parents that will uphold in the Wizengamot. But he wasn’t about to explain all that to her, not if it would make her start weeping again. 

And then she looked up to him with a childlike hope in her eyes. Perhaps that wasn’t the best thing to say either because he literally had no idea what he was doing, and he didn’t want to feed her some impossible daydream that they might get out of this mess. 

But at least she wasn’t sniffling anymore. 

The front door chimed as new customers ambled in from the cold. Conversation bubbled and chinaware tinkled. The chorus of café commotion returned to the forefront as Astoria composed herself and Draco remembered where they were and why he was here. 

He wasn’t sure when it happened but as he went to pour another cup of Chamomile for himself, he looked up to offer Astoria a refill but stopped mid motion when he saw the stricken look on her face.

Draco turned round, expecting to see his mother approaching to resume her onslaught of wedding queries but only saw another couple entering the shop. They were cuddled up to each other and not because of the cold. They shared the kind of intimacy you see in couples just starting out, when they are both still excited about one another and keep finding reasons to prolong their touch. 

He turned back to Astoria whose gaze was fixed on the couple. 

She looked crushed. 

“Alright, who’s the bloke?”

“Sorry?” Astoria’s eyes boggled. 

He rolled his eyes. Gods, this witch was transparent. 

“The one you can’t stop looking at since he entered the shop with that tart on his arm.”

She let out a long-suffering sigh, “his name is Malcolm Baddock. You might remember him actually, he’s in Slytherin House. Sixth year.”

He did not remember him. But that may be on account of his magical education being overturned with a secret plot to assassinate the headmaster and work out how to let a group of criminals through an anti-apparition warded, highly secure castle. You know, classic adolescent experiences. 

“He’s with Eleanor Branstone, a Hufflepuff.”

Draco scoffed, “Well that’s no competition for you surely, just tell the floozy you’re in connection with some vengeful ex-death eater types and if she’d like to keep her face pretty for the next gentleman caller, she’d do best make herself scarce.”

Astoria scowled. 

“Oh yes how very civilised. I’m sure that would go down splendidly what with half the school experiencing ptsd from the final battle and the other half still grieving their family’s premature deaths.”

Sheesh, tough crowd. 

He was only trying to avoid another meltdown by cracking a joke. 

He held up his hands in surrender, “Or you could always just send a sneaky hex her way. Under the tables during class, no one would notice a thing. I know a fair few, I’ll teach you.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, I don’t need you to teach me magic,” she spat out. 

“No need to snap at me because you’re jealous-“

“I’m not jealous!”

“I can see it written all over your face. You couldn’t be any more obvious if you tried.”

She crossed her arms in a huff and slouched back in her chair. Abandoning all pretence of the elegant civility that she had just demonstrated for the past half hour. She looked back to Malcolm sodding Baddock with a blatant look of loathing. Irritation twitching in her left eye. Fingernails digging into her arms. 

He hadn't known Astoria well growing up but it struck him by this one meeting alone, how much of an open book she was. It was frankly unsettling. To see someone hold out their cards for all to see.

“You should learn occlumency. It helps… with that. The difficult emotions.”

She sat up in her chair. Sufficiently distracted. 

“Occlumency? How does that work?”

“You clear your mind of all emotion and thoughts. Make it an empty space. Lock all the bad feelings and memories away by imagining them sealed behind a wall or locked in a chest. Unbreachable even to you.”

Her brows furrowed.

“Why on earth would I want to do a thing like that?”

“Because it takes it all away. The pain and the hurt. It makes living through,” he gestured in the couple’s direction, “stuff like that more manageable.”

She gave him a cool, disapproving look.

“Some things are meant to be felt. Even if they hurt,” she chanced another glance at Malcolm’s arm wrapped around Eleanor’s in the corner, splitting a scone down the middle to share, “It just makes the good memories all that more special and precious.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

She was so naïve. So young. She hadn’t lived through the war like he had. She had been sheltered by family that actually knew right from wrong. And therefore, didn’t have to live through the pain of seeing your loved ones succumb to the rule of a megalomanic. Or be forced to torture innocent people because if you didn’t, if you showed any signs of weakness, you and your family would be tortured and killed in their stead. ‘Good memories’ and ‘precious moments’ can’t preserve anyone through shit like that. 

But as Malfoy looked up to Astoria to offer a platter of those bitter sentiments and inform her of the true ways of the world - he stopped himself short when he saw the wounded expression back on the young girl’s face. Saw the way her eyes gleamed post tears. More clearly threatening to make an appearance. He couldn’t do it. It’d be like kicking a cruppy. 

Merlin, he was getting soft. 

_Is this what it feels like to be Hufflepuff?_

He sighed.

“I might be able to get her with a stinging jinx from here, if you like.”

“No, don’t you dare! There are too many people in this shop you’re bound to misfire.”

“My aim is quite good I assure you. They don’t let amateurs into the Dark Lord’s ranks.” 

She scolded him by batting his arm. And he made of a show of pretending she had mortally wounded him with the blow causing her to laugh again, thank Merlin. 

“-Well, I was going to apologise for being late Tori, but you look like you might actually be enjoying yourself.”

“Oh Daphne, thank Gods.” 

Astoria leapt up from her chair and gave her sister a bone crushing hug. 

Not just Daphne. But Theodore Nott had arrived on her arm to their table. Looking just as stiff and uncomfortable as he had not five minutes prior. 

“Theo,” he inclined his head by way of greeting. 

“Malfoy.”

“Daphne.”

“Malfoy.”

A stilted pause followed their acknowledgement of one another. 

Not entirely unexpected, any comradery he would have shared with his former Slytherins was quickly undone by their seventh year together at Hogwarts. Turns out being complicit in the Carrow’s torture has a way of doing that to friendships. 

He cleared his throat.

“I believe congratulations are in order for your upcoming nuptials. When’s the date?”

“March. You?”

“September.”

“Lucky bastard,” Theo muttered. 

Daphne punched his arm, hearing him over the hubbub of the café. 

“Well, he is. At least they have a chance to get used to the idea… not like us, getting hitched so quick that all the papers will be looking for a baby bump under your wedding dress. An arranged marriage contract wasn’t exactly the Christmas gift I was hoping to unwrap that morning by the way...”

“You could do a lot worse than me. Consider yourself lucky you weren’t paired off with someone like Millicent Bulstrode.” 

He shuddered, “point taken.”

Astoria collected her handbag hurriedly and handed his dampened handkerchief back to him, “I asked my sister to come interrupt this date on the pretext of a family emergency. No offence, Draco but your mother was frighteningly persistent in arranging this get together. I was receiving multiple owls every morning in the Great Hall.”

_Of course, she did. The snake._

“None taken. But you might want to work on that excuse. Knowing my mother, she’d try to tag along with you for ‘moral support’. We are all soon to be related now after all.”

Daphne grimaced.

“That’ll take some getting used to.”

“Get used to what?”

They all jumped as Narcissa had materialised behind them. Finally returned from her alleged bathroom break. 

“Ahh… well..”

Astoria stumbled with an excuse; fear plainly written over her features again. 

Draco sighed. 

Yet again compelled to do another act of kindness. Any more of this and he would have to publicly renounce his allegiance to Slytherin. 

“Astoria has to go, Mother. One of her crups has taken ill and is on its last leg, so to speak.”

Daphne’s eyes widened slightly as she registered the lie, but she was quick to add on, “That’s why I came to find Astoria, Mrs. Malfoy, I was going to take her back home to say her goodbyes to erm… Binky before he passed on.”

Astoria had no problem playacting a concerned expression but perhaps the mere suggestion of one of her pets dying was enough to illicit a look of such genuine anxiety. 

“Oh, Astoria dear, how awful. I’m sorry you will have to cut our morning tea short but of course you must go and see to your pet,” she put a placating hand on her shoulder and Merlin his mother was good at appearing sincere and contrite when she needed to be. There was no way she was believing this cock and bull story. 

Narcissa inclined her head to him with a devious flicker in the eyes. And he knew by that look alone his mother was already plotting her next ploy. He resisted the temptation to openly sneer at her and cause another public outburst. 

“Draco, darling. Do escort Astoria and Daphne out and chaperone them to the floos. I believe it’s snowing quite heavily out there.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Theodore is with us,” Daphne interjected. 

Narcissa shot her an authoritative glare and she quickly shrivelled under the scrutiny. Docilely taking Theo’s arm as they prepared to leave. 

Narcissa turned back to Draco expectantly. 

He weighed his options. 

He could just refuse her. Let her know he would not be commanded to and from like a common house elf to do as she bid. 

But the enticement to just up and leave was an alluring one. 

Being inundated with the near constant sight of young students looking every bit as joyful and loved up as they were was definitely starting to take its toll. Not to mention the occasional despising look thrown his way from staff, for merely deigning to exist in wizarding society given his past misdeeds. It happened everywhere he went these days, but it didn’t mean he was immune to it by now. 

And then there was the unrelenting visual assault of whatever the fuck Madam Puddifoot believed was good interior design. Pink on pink decor layered with swatches of lace and frills seemed to be attached to every available surface in this place. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dolores Umbridge herself decorated this shop. 

Yep. It was definitely time to go. 

He stood to leave, deliberately ignoring the good manners of pushing back his chair. Crumpling up the napkin that was on his lap and casually throwing it to the table. He refused to offer any farewells to his mother. And promptly directed himself and Astoria to the door. 

He held out his hand, ghosting the small of Astoria’s back. Guiding her out the tea shop and pointedly not giving his mother the satisfaction of offering his arm to her as was custom for a gentleman of his upbringing. 

He glanced back to his mother to offer one final parting sneer, to communicate one last time, the depth of his displeasure. A look that said, _‘I’ll get you back for this, mark my words.’_ But he was only met with a buoyant look of triumph. Arms crossed and a raised brow challenging his own. 

A moment later and a bright camera bulb flashed. Outside the entrance was a swarm of reporters. 

And Rita Skeeter at the helm.

_Oh, fucking hell._

“Draco! Astoria! Don’t you make a splendid couple. Any words for tomorrow’s Prophet on your forbidden romance? Is this the reason for your dramatic exit of the NYE ball, Draco? Were you denied the hand of your beloved?”

A torrent of questions followed suit and Draco spun round in vain, looking for a quick exit. He gripped Astoria by the shoulder and powered through the reporters, offering no comment and following Daphne and Theo’s steps close behind. After breaking free of the mob by running down several streets and back alley ways they all eventually outpaced them. No small feat, considering the flurry of snowfall impeding their steps.

“Did your wasp of a mother arrange that blitz back there?” Daphne spat. 

“No doubt”

Astoria groaned, “There’s no getting out of this now. Tomorrow morning those pictures will be plastered everywhere. _The debutante and the death eater…”_

Theo quirked his brow, “there was never any ‘getting out of this’ for any of us though, was there?” 

“Draco said he is going to try rescinding the contract. That there are other avenues we can try before it happens, right Draco?”

They all turned to look at him expectantly. 

That blasted look of desperate hope etched to all their faces. 

He knew he would live to regret those earlier words of comfort he gave to Astoria. This is what he gets for trying to be nice to people.

“Can you? Is there a way?” Daphne asked breathlessly. 

He shifted on his feet, reluctant to repeat his earlier comforting sentiments, “it’s impossible for any of us to destroy the contracts. Only our parents have authorship over them. The magic is impenetrable. And there are no legal grounds for dismissing them either…” 

Their expressions fell and he should have been impervious by the sight of it, if only he didn’t have such an equally vested interest in the outcome of this himself. 

He sighed, “…but yes I’m going to… try and get out of this. By whatever means.”

They all jointly exhaled for a beat. Frosted air expelling on the breath and clouding the air around them. 

Theo was the first to break the silence. 

Disbelief. Disdain. Dejection. Just about every emotion Theo must feel for him was made plain in just one look. A lifetime of knowing one another, growing up together, bonding over their messed-up families, a war and now this. All that should have bought them closer created a splinter between them the size of a gulf.

“Whatever means it takes, just swallow your pride and get it done. For all our sakes.”

Daphne, Astoria and Theo all clasped hands and apparated in a snap. 

Leaving whatever retort that was about to eject from his mouth stuck down in the passage of his throat. 

But he didn’t misunderstand Theo’s meaning. 

They knew each other too well. 

  


* * *

  


_January 9th, 2000_

He had taken Theo’s advice. 

Begrudgingly. But taken, nonetheless. 

He could swallow his pride. He could encage his ego. He could get on his knees and beg if that’s what it took. He needed an exit strategy, and he would find it by whatever means necessary. 

Including working with Granger.

And though it pained him to admit it. If anyone could find a solution, it was _the_ Hermione Granger. The witch was anything but a quitter. 

Going it alone wasn’t an option with this. He had taken that path before. Replaced true friends with disposable minions. Used his family name as a bargaining chip. Did what was necessary to stay alive even if it was cruel.

Ambitious. Cunning. Resourceful. 

He was a Slytherin through and through. 

But all of that wouldn’t be enough this time. 

He needed some of that stubborn Gryffindor grit. The kind of pig-headed determination that all those in red possessed to fault. _‘Never give up’, ‘Leave no one behind’_ or whatever tripe those fools spouted in between heroic soliloquys and suicidal rescue attempts.

He’d hit a wall and he needed someone on his team that would see a window in its stead. 

He waited outside the quiet street of Aintree Avenue, as early as first light. Fully giving up on the possibility of sleep for another night as his past, present and future refused to shut up for one Gods damn moment and give him some sorely needed reprieve. 

The off street from Diagon Alley was narrow and quiet at the best of times. But in the early morning light, it was almost ghostly. It had stopped snowing temporarily but the sky still hung low, grey and dreary. Even the wind moved soundlessly against his skin.

So, when the first lot of wizards and witches started making their way to their respective jobs and businesses for the day, he had heard her coming down the street before he saw her. 

The purposeful clip clop of heels on cobblestone proceeded the image of Granger making her way down the street. She carried a comical number of books and scrolls. A coffee cup sat precariously on top of the stack. 

_Some things clearly never change._

He automatically stood regal. Waiting for her to notice his presence by the entrance of Wrightwise Co. head office. Trading his impassive, sleep deprived features for a smirk. 

She stopped in her tracks when she finally saw him. 

“Figured you’d be an early riser, Granger.”

She blinked. 

“No.”

“…What do you mean no?”

“No meaning no. I’m not in the mood nor do I have the inclination to help with whatever it is that you came here for. I meant what I said last week, Malfoy.”

_Of course, she would make this difficult._

“Unfortunate for you, your moods or inclinations have no standing in this arrangement. See you're employed to provide a service which I happen to be paying for. Therefore, I’ll need to hear a yes... Preferably a yes, sir.” 

Hermione regarded him blankly for a beat and then continued towards the office without another word. She was still plainly at a war with all that she carried. Adjusting her grip as she figured out how to open the door without toppling over her possessions in the process. 

He usually would have enjoyed the sight of seeing her struggle and make a fool of herself. Maybe even stuck out his foot to trip her up as she walked by. But he was trying to get into this witch’s good graces today so he supposed that he would have to be… courteous.

He moved to open the door for her, and she stiffened as he came up from behind to do so. 

Towering over her. He was at least a head taller than the witch and he wondered suddenly if she felt afraid of him. If maybe showing up first thing to her place of employment without owl or appointment was crossing one too many lines. 

Too late to rethink this now though. 

He opened the door and gave her a wide berth. Inclining his head as silent gesture that she enter first. 

She gave a curt nod as thanks and rushed on in without a second glance. The upwind of her stride blowing the scent of the fresh parchment and coffee she carried.

He scrunched his nose on impulse. He really couldn’t stand that vile broth. Even the smell of it reminded him of the first time he tasted the bitter singe of coffee on his tongue. Figures Granger had no proper taste in morning brews. 

He followed her down the hall of the office into her cubicle. They must have been the first one's in that day as a preternatural quiet was settled over the space.

Her cubicle was cramped and in complete disarray, with books and notes scattered between her desk and shelves. Not unlike her flat in that regard. He was beginning to suspect the witch didn’t know any basic organisational spells at all. 

She shrugged off her coat and put it on the hat stand in the corner.

And for Salazar’s sake, do muggles have a shortage of fabric supplies? Why do all their clothes hug so tightly to the body? Do they not have the modesty for proper robes?

Granger was wearing a similar get up the last time he saw her here, the outfit had made him momentarily incensed at her nerve to wear something so salacious to work. 

Her office uniform was a skirt that clung to her hourglass figure, cut just above the knee. The short heels were… atrocious but possibly the only conservative aspect of the outfit. As the blouse had a few buttons left open, exposing her décolletage. Her hair was barely constrained in a low ponytail, curls falling from the elastic and framing her face. 

She turned back to look at him questioningly and he realised he had been openly ogling her for Merlin knows how long. 

He sneered and she sneered back. Taking a sip of her coffee before sitting at her desk and begin the day's work. Not another glance was spared his way.

He sighed heavily and cleared his throat causing her quill to stop mid-stroke, irritation made plain on her features.

“Can I help you, _Sir_?”

“Why yes, how kind of you to ask?” He said sashaying over to the chair opposite her desk, “Mr. Wrightwise put you in charge of researching options for my predicament and I am here to follow up on your progress.”

“Did he? I don’t recall,” she droned, flicking her way through several piles of parchment before obtaining the correct one to write in.

“Yes, he did in fact, right before you dragged me into a supply closet and screamed at me. I have to say I’m not very impressed with the current level of service I have been receiving so far at this firm, perhaps I should inquire to a superior about you conduct.”

She stilled her quill’s progress on the page and looked up to glare daggers at him. 

Then within a blink, her expression lifted into a calculated smirk. 

“I would have thought given today’s Prophet that you were no longer interested in pursuing this case, Malfoy. You looked more than cosy with your bride to be.” 

She lifted a pile of paperwork to her side and handed him the morning Prophet that had been tucked underneath it. 

Passing it to him, Malfoy already half suspected what awaited him as he unfolded the page. So, he did not solicit a look of surprise at another supposed scandal attached to his name, to Hermione's chagrin. 

  


****

**WARTIME ROMANCE EXPOSED!**

****

**THE FORBIDDEN DALLIANCE BETWEEN DEBUTANTE DARLING AND DEATHEATER DEVIL**

  


He’d have to owl Astoria. She’d been right on the money with that headline. 

Pictures of himself and Astoria in the tea shop dominated the front page. They had gotten the perfect shot of him moving closer to comfort her as she cried into his handkerchief, arm round her back – the angle making it look so much more intimate than it was in reality. 

Another photo of them grinning and laughing was played on loop beside a smaller shot of them leaving Puddifoot’s with his arm on her back. 

His mother really was a crafty cow. 

She hadn’t arranged that get together for either of their benefit but for hers as usual. Now he was no longer the Malfoy heir fallen from grace, but the poor mislead child dragged into battle and estranged from his one true love. For Salazar’s sake, who believes this drivel? 

Skeeter had portrayed Narcissa and the Greengrass’ as disapproving of the match - in a bid, no doubt, to garner public sympathy.

He sighed. 

One thing was for sure. He’d have a hard time convincing any witch to go out with him now with a story like this. Skeeter was all but two sentences away from penning them as star crossed lovers.

“This article was my mother’s doing. Astoria and I wish to absolve this contract as soon as possible.”

Hermione blanched. 

“Your mother arranged _this_?”

“Is that really a surprise?”

“No, I guess not…” her brows furrowed, “It’s just that she’s not exactly portrayed in a favourable light in this article…”

“Oh, you just wait. Next week it will be the engagement announcement. My mother will reveal it in some tell all interview for _Witch Weekly_ probably. Then they’ll hound the pair of us for wedding details. A few months down the road they’ll be guessing how long it will be before Malfoy junior comes along. It’s all part of her plan to rework the Malfoy image.” 

“Poor Astoria,” she muttered. 

Poor Astoria? 

What about poor Malfoy. _Hello? I’m suffering in my personal hell over here too, you know._

“So, have you found out anything yet?”

“In all honesty I haven’t done anything at all, Malfoy. I wasn’t expecting you to return. And I didn’t take any notes during that meeting…”

“I am talking to Hermione Granger, right?”

Her lip quirked and her eyes flickered over him. 

It was a brief moment, but he felt something pull in his stomach as her deep brown eyes connected with his steely grey. 

She cleared her throat, “Tell me about the contract again.”

As he explained the details of the contract to her, he knew that he had made the right decision coming here. 

All the complications and dead ends that depressed him seemed to alight something behind her eyes. She would grasp her quill tighter and scrawl out her thoughts. Mind clearly working at a lightning-fast pace. She’d ask questions and poke further into his own research. Ask him what conclusions he had drawn and why. She was very _thorough._

“How does this blood magic work exactly? What did your parents actually do?”

“It’s a blood pact. Simple enough magic, really, both parties cut their hands with their wands or ceremonial dagger and make the desired oath while intermingling their blood. Sometimes drinking it. It’s a symbolic ritual for bringing all participants together as one family.”

She wrinkled her nose, “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s tradition,” he prompted. “But yes, that too.”

She muttered under her breath, something that sounded suspiciously like _‘and you call muggles uncivilised’_ but he chose to ignore the barb given the fact that she was actually helping him out here, against all odds.

“And they never told you of this blood pact, do you know when it occurred?”

“There was no signature date on the contract, no.”

“Can I see it?” 

He summoned the contract mid-air, and she made a small noise of approval at his efficiency. The parchment hovered above the desk-top, emanating an invisible but tangible barrier from the protective wards placed on it. 

“See that’s called a summoning spell Granger, it’s useful for getting things from one place to another without having to haul a stack of books every which way and walk with the gait of hunchback.”

Her eyes narrowed and he grinned. He really couldn’t help himself sometimes it was far too easy to rile her up. 

“And there’s no way to just destroy it?”

“None that I could find.” 

She sat back in her chair, watching the parchment slowly dip up and down as it hovered before them. 

“Looks like I have my work cut out for me then,” she murmured. 

He could scarce believe she spoke those words. He blinked several times. Trying to mask the incredulity in his tone when he eventually asked;

“So, you’ll help me?”

“I’ll look into it,” was all that she said in reply before her bushy curls were again submerged back into the paperwork and books that seemed to gravitate towards her of their own accord. 

He stood up after a beat. Not wanting to push his luck. 

“I look forward to your owl then Granger.” 

Then quickly strode out of the room.

He was only part way through the door before she called him back. 

“Malfoy?”

He sighed. 

_There was always something wasn’t there._

He turned round and saw her point to the contract still floating above her desk. A slight teasing smile playing across her face. 

“Best if you keep it, I think.”

“Yes, wouldn’t want you to spill your coffee all over my precious nuptials now, would I?”

She only rolled her eyes as he whisked the paper away with a flick of the wand. 

“And Malfoy?”

_Gods, what now?_

“I won’t be owling you.”

“…Won’t you now. And why not may I ask?”

“Because” she sat back in her chair again, giving him an evaluating look, “You’re going to research this with me.”

He faltered. 

“You want to work together?”

“I can’t possibly keep up with this all on my own as well as complete my work here and my Magical Law curriculum. So, yes. We are going to work on this together. I’ll give you my Friday’s and Saturday mornings,” she said as she scrambled through the draw to find a planner and scribble his name into her schedule. 

He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. 

It was not a question. She wasn’t asking or demanding his help. She was stating it like fact. Like it was already decided upon by them both. 

“Besides. It’d be good for you to be involved, Malfoy.”

He scoffed, “Why? So, I can learn not have everything 'handed to me on a silver platter' – I haven’t forgotten your little pep talk as of yet, thank you very much.”

“To hold yourself accountable, Malfoy.” Her eyes lifted from the page to scrutinise his own. He felt oddly in that moment like he was now one of the books at her desk, spread open for examination. He resisted the temptation to not fidget under her serious gaze. “For others and yourself.” 

"What is this? Another pet project for you, Granger. Are you going to try redeem the villain and save the day again?" 

Her brows pulled together as she murmured, "You don't need redemption, Malfoy" 

"I think you'll find the rest of the wizarding world hasn't quite gotten that memo yet. Pray tell, what do I need?" 

"Help, Malfoy. You need help."

He bristled immediately at her gentle, caring tone.

It took him an exceptional amount of willpower to not send another teeth growing hex her way in that moment. He hated her. Hated her holier than thou complex and the superiority she had in this situation. Hated that she was right. 

_Swallow your pride. Swallow your pride. Swallow your fucking pride._

"And lucky for you, I am willing to offer it." 

He rolled his shoulders imperceptibly before sending a cordial nod her way and walking out the door. He couldn't trust himself to continue this conversation without lashing out and ruining his chances.

“See you Friday then, Granger.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! It's been a hot minute since I've posted but I want to say a quick thank you again!
> 
> This fic currently has 102 kudos and honestly what the heck guys, I am entirely undeserving of this praise especially given the complete mess of a chapter I am about to upload.
> 
> Not to take a massive dump all over my work before anyone has had a chance to read it but out of all the chapters I've written thus far I think I hate this one the most. It will probably become painfully obvious that I don't know a damn thing about how law works in this chapter but it's ok ssshhhh... it's fanfiction... it doesn't have to make sense. At least that's what I tell myself as I write this. Feel free to drag me in the comments regardless.
> 
> Anyway that's enough oversharing for now. I know I do joke a lot about it but genuinely thank you to anyone who takes time out of their day to read this story/comment their thoughts about it. It means a lot and makes me strive to make this story as good as it can be for you all <3
> 
> Appreciate ya xx

_January 13th, 2000_

Regret.

Hermione knew the feeling all too well. 

It was attached to her like a shadow, these days. Permanently affixed to her psyche. And although at times it could escape her notice, if she stayed busy and kept her mind preoccupied with work or study, it didn’t mean that it wasn’t always there. Lingering. Waiting. Threatening to engulf her whole. 

She had lived to regret a number of things in her life thus far. More than anyone her age should, really. 

As Hermione sat on the ancient chesterfield at number 12 Grimmauld Place that Thursday evening, knees propped up to her chin and an idle finger circling the aged creases of the leather armrest, she mentally compiled a list of all the regrets she had accumulated up till now. 

Polyjuice-ing herself into a cat in second year was definitely a top contender. How she confused cat hair to Millicent Bulstrode’s still has her questioning her sanity to this day. 

But taking divination as a subject in third year came a close second. 

Not only had the subject been a categorical waste of her time (or anyone’s time for that matter!) she had also needlessly spent thirteen sickles and five knuts on class supplies for the course. What money could have been happily spent at _Flourish and Blotts_ had instead been used to purchase some rather foul-smelling herbal teas and a crystal ball which did nothing more than refract light. 

Although admittedly it did become a rather handy object later on, to vent some much-needed emotional catharsis by smashing the glass orb on the flagstones of girl’s dormitory. _‘Hopelessly mundane’ my arse..._

And till this very day she still couldn’t think back on her time as a fourth year without physically cringing in mortification. Going through puberty is hard enough without gossip magazines scrutinising your every feature or critiquing your supposedly scandalous love life. Not to mention the whole ‘being dragged out of the depths of the Great Lake in front of the entire school and looking like a drowned rat’ episode. Merlin, Pansy never let that one go. 

She still sorely lamented taking Cormac McLaggen as her date to Slughorn’s Christmas party in her sixth year… for obvious reasons. 

She deeply regretted obliviating her parents. 

But at least she could live with all of these regrets. Chalk it all up to useful character growth. Attribute the mistakes as valuable learning experiences and argue that her choices were made with the right intentions or that she was a victim of poor circumstance. 

And what’s life without a bit of mess? She was only one of many in her immediate circle who could attest to the fact that nothing in life ever happened seamlessly. _Best laid plans_ is perhaps one of the few old proverbs with any actual merit to it. 

So, by that logic, Hermione could find peace with all of these regrets in some way. As long as there was sound reasoning on any given problem it could instantly put her mind at ease. 

Which is why, for the past four days exactly, Hermione could not comprehend what in the fresh hell she had been thinking when she asked Draco Malfoy to help her research his case. 

As soon as he had waltzed out that door, she felt the all too familiar sensation of regret creep up from behind and cast its officious shadow over her. 

What on earth had she been thinking? 

Asking Malfoy to spend time with her… voluntarily. 

She had never pegged herself as a masochist but that act alone spoke otherwise. 

While yes, she did believe that Malfoy could benefit from some structure and responsibility. The wizard was already so insufferably entitled and clearly needed someone in his life to hold him accountable for future reckless behaviour he was bound to commit. That did not mean she had to go ahead and offer herself as his own personal life coach, did it? 

And yes, while she did technically have a lot on her plate, it was no more than she usually had. If a year taking every class offered in the school curriculum with aid of a time turner had proved anything, it was that she was a witch who could get shit done. 

She didn’t need his help or anyone’s for that matter. If anything, Malfoy was more likely going to be an impediment to her progress rather than an encouragement.

She could lie to him all she liked but the reason she had asked for his assistance wasn’t to do with any of those flimsy excuses she had touted. And she knew it. 

It was something else entirely that had made her ask… something that defied explanation. Which made it all the more frustrating. 

When she saw him waiting for her outside the office last Monday morning, it felt like a weight had dropped to the bottom of her stomach. It had made her halt mid step. Physically stilled by just the sight of him. 

Even if he did look undeniably tired, he still had this _air_ about him. Tall and porcelain and poised. Admittedly the dark circles under his eyes were an almost perfect match for those black suits he favours. But the description still felt apt, he was just… impeccable. 

Impeccably dressed and impeccably groomed. Perfect in all outward appearance. You could never tell just by looking at him how much of a mess his life really was behind the facade. It was rather unfair actually. Borderline offensive of him to look so put together when the rest of the world had to bear their burdens without having the good fortune of looking so elegant while doing so. 

She had felt something inside her pull inexplicably toward him. Almost as if a cord attached to her navel was tugging her onward. Urging her to step forward. 

It struck her immediately how abnormal that was. To react to him so physically when she had already seen the wizard twice in the past week alone. Not to mention having the misfortune of being tormented by the sod for the entirety of her magical education. But she had never felt that way about him before…

Her reaction must have been from the surprise of seeing him there, she supposed. She’d been momentarily baffled by his unexpected appearance and when Hermione was deprived of explanation, her brain inevitably faltered too.

Or maybe it was just a lack of caffeine. It had simply been too early to deal with the sight of him or the bullshit that he inevitably spews out, without two more cups of coffee in her system at least. 

Yet it had still nagged away at her all week. She couldn’t shake it off. That feeling. 

“You’re rather quiet, Hermione.” 

Ginny plonked down on the couch beside her, cradling a large wooden bowl of buttered popcorn in her lap. 

“Hmm? …sorry I didn’t mean to be.”

Ginny chuckled, “Not that I blame you. How long has it been since you started on that TV, love?”

Harry, who had been crouching by the television monitor, jabbing his wand at the screen and muttering spells with increasing ferocity for at least the past forty minutes, flipped the bird to his beloved. 

“It’d be a lot easier if we were setting this up in a house that actually had a functioning electrical outlet. How the wizarding world foregoes electricity still is beyond me,” he muttered. 

“I did offer to host this movie night at my place,” Hermione offered, grabbing a generous handful of popcorn from the bowl, “It is a muggle building after all.” 

“Have you finished unpacking yet?”

“No but-”

“Then we’re having movie night here,” Harry said firmly, “No offence Mione’ but I think it’d be too much of a challenge for all of us to watch the TV over the mountains of books and personal possession, I know are still currently stacked in that apartment of yours. Almost put my back out on moving day…”

“You did not! We all used magic to move them and it’s not like we can’t just use magic to move them out of the way temporarily to watch a film either-”

“I think this is Harry’s way of telling you he feels claustrophobic at your flat, Mione,” Ginny chuckled as she chomped down on some more popcorn. 

“For the last time. It’s _not_ that small. It’s a perfectly suitable sized apartment for one person. And it will have even more space when I’ve finished unpacking.”

“And when will that be exactly?” Ginny snickered. 

Hermione threw a kernel at her head in reply. 

A brief retaliation period ensued between the pair, with many popcorn pieces sacrificed to the carpet for their mock battle. By the time the clock struck eight forty-nine, Hermione and Ginny had moved on to entertaining themselves by throwing the buttery snack to each other and trying to catch it with their mouths mid-air. 

“Come on, Harry we’re going to be finished with all the food before we’ve even watched the video. It’s almost nine,” Ginny groaned. 

“You know, I’d probably get this done a lot quicker if I had some help,” he countered, his black hair reaching new unimagined heights of dishevelled-ness as his wand expelled electrical currents to the screen. 

“Not a chance. If you picked the movie then you can set up the telly-vidgeon whatchamacallit on your own too.”

“Television,” Hermione corrected. 

“Whatever.”

“It is getting rather late,” Hermione conceded as she eyed the mantel clock by the fire. She was struck by a sudden anxiety that she had just knowingly wasted an hour and half sitting idle when she could have been at home studying, “We were meant to start at seven thirty.”

“And still my brother manages to be late,” Ginny rolled her eyes, “You don’t mind him coming do you?”

“Course I don’t. It’s Ron.”

“It won’t be weird for you though, will it?”

“Of course not. _It’s Ron_.”

“But-“

“It’s fine Ginny, honest. You know how I feel about him, and we’ve made up more or less over the NYE incident.”

Ginny surveyed her for a moment to gage her friend’s sincerity before shrugging and working her way over to the coffee table to open a box of _Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans._

“So, how’s work going?” she asked, shaking the box and plunging her hand into its depths to pick a flavour at random. 

“Fine. Good.”

She nodded. Returning to her finger’s task of worrying the age lines on the sofa. 

Harry and Ginny both paused in their current ministrations to share a joint glance of concern at each other before examining Hermione closely. 

She looked up when she felt the intensity of their gaze and for a brief moment felt the rising insecurity that there might be a bit of ink on her face or popcorn in her teeth. But it wasn’t that kind of scrutinising look they were giving her. It was more penetrating. As if they were trying to read her mind. 

“What?”

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, pushing his spectacles up his nose. 

Hermione frowned at him, nonplussed. 

“Nothing’s wrong. I just said everything was fine.”

“I have never heard you speak about work without launching into some longwinded monologue about werewolf rights or house elf liberation. What’s going on, Mione’?” 

Despite the underlying jab at her passion projects in that comment, Harry had asked her so kindly and with such a genuine familial concern that it struck right into her heart with an aching pang. 

“Nothing,” she offered a tight smile, “Just been so busy lately. It’s… a lot to take in. Learning law.”

“Not so different from what you were doing in the Ministry though, right? Weren’t you in the legislative department of the DRCMC?”

“Yes, but that was always more clerical than anything. And it’s much more full-on at Wrightwise Consultancy. I’m doing ten times the amount of work I used to do at the Ministry.”

Ginny and Harry relaxed the more and more she talked. Outlining her day-to-day routine and study plans for the year. She knew that would work. Explaining the surface details. Never going into depth on any one subject. 

_Just drone on till they get distracted, which they always do, and then you’ll be off the hook. That way they’ll think you’re fine and not secretly spiralling about tomorrow’s appointment with a certain ex nemesis they all share…_

The floo in the sitting room suddenly roared to life and Ron emerged from the green flames with another person tailing along behind him. A witch with curls that could rival her own, attached herself to his arm. Fawning and smiling defiantly at them all. 

It was Lavender Brown.

A silence swept over the room like an icy breeze. Gazes turning from the couple back to Hermione. Again. 

She sighed internally. It was the New Year’s Eve party all over again. 

Is this how it’s going to be now amongst her friends? Pitying glances sent her way whenever the two of them were in the same room? 

She took a quick breath and commanded her facial features into a more neutral position. Silently imploring her friends to stop worrying about her feelings on her behalf for one god damn minute.

“Sorry we’re late. Was caught up at the Burrow. Mum made shepherd’s pie.”

“Didn’t know _she_ was coming with you,” Ginny interjected rather coolly, crossing her arms. 

Harry stood up beside his girlfriend and gave her a not-so-subtle nudge to the ribs. 

“You were both at the Burrow?” he asked politely. 

“Yeah, meeting the parents officially, as it were.”

Another drawn out pause of surprise at this information settled over the room. And Hermione wondered if it was in fact possible to actually drop dead from awkward silences. It certainly felt excruciating.

“So… this is serious then?” Ginny asked in sceptical tone that bordered on insulting. 

Ron’s shoulders straightened out from it’s predisposed slouch and he levelled his gaze to his sister’s, challenging her blatantly rude demeanour, “Yeah, it is.”

Ginny shot her another sympathetic glance at this causing Hermione to bristle and resolve to interrupt the uncomfortable proceedings before it got any worse, “That’s great, Ron. I’m happy for you both,” she felt momentarily elated that her voice didn’t sound bitter or betray her feelings of incredulousness towards the pair.

_I mean really, Lavender Brown? The witch believed using ovomancy could predict her O.W.L scores before even taking any of the tests. Never mind actually studying when you could use eggs yolks to ace Herbology._

Nevertheless, she turned her attention to the witch and offered kindly, “Did Molly make the chocolate rum cake? I’m always holding out for it when I visit.”

“Yes, it was to die for!” Lavender gushed. 

Her question had the affect she had intended. Ginny relaxed and became visibly warmer to the pair. Asking/Berating his brother for not bringing over any leftovers with an affectionate clip over the ear. 

“There wasn’t any to spare,” he whined, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Of course there wasn’t, you are such a glutton,” she sniffed, “Doesn’t matter that you’re late anyway, Harry’s still at war with that muggle device.”

Ron perked up at this and ambled over to the television set with an open look of curiosity, taking his wand out his jacket sleeve and directing it to the set. 

Harry leapt in front of him. Fear of Ron’s wandwork was second nature for them all but Ron simply tapped the top of the box and with a few musical raps the television buzzed and came alight. Functioning as good as any other TV she had seen. 

Harry looked torn between whether he should tear his hair out or scream, _“How Did You Do That?”_

“Always the tone of the surprise,” he laughed knowingly, “It’s not like my dad has been fiddling with this stuff all his life. Picked up the odd trick here and there.”

Ginny settled back on the couch beside Hermione, tearing into a packet of caramels, “Finally... Can we get this show on the road now?”

“Actually, isn’t there something you wanted to tell everyone now that we’re all here?” Harry sent a very pointed look to her; his words were heavily enunciated and thick with hidden meaning. 

“Oh, right!” She leapt from the sofa and waggled her eyebrows as she extended her wand hand towards them all. A sizeable diamond was attached to her ring finger. And Hermione couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it before. It was big enough to have its own gravitational orbit. 

“YOU’RE ENGAGED!” 

Everyone in the room exclaimed and practically hurdled themselves over to the pair to embrace and congratulate their newly engaged friends. Excited chit-chat bubbled for the next few minutes. Hugs and happy tears exchanged by all. 

Hermione wiped her eyes as she pulled away from Harry and finally managed to put a coherent sentence together despite her blubbering, “When did this happen?”

Harry eyed his wife-to-be and laughed, “Been trying to ask her since New Year’s actually but-“

“but all of you keep bloody interrupting us!” Ginny exclaimed.

“Whatchyamean?” Ron asked, his mouth was full of sweets he’d evidently stolen from coffee table. 

“It’s all your bloody fault,” she accused, prodding him in the shoulder with a newly bejewelled hand. 

“Me? What’d I do?”

Harry chuckled, “I had planned to ask on the night of the party. All our friends and family were there but...” his eyes wandered back to Hermione and she shook her head imperceptibly, a silent _let’s not go there again_ , was understood implicitly. “The timing was never right.”

Ginny scoffed and took up the reins of the conversation, directing her wrath to her brother, “You and your bloody mouth is what happened! First with her,” she gestured vaguely to the increasingly uncomfortable looking witch beside Ron, “no offence Lav, and then the next morning, you just storm into our bedroom screaming about Hermione and her torrent affair with Draco bloody Malfoy, like we had nothing better to do New Year’s Day. We were practically mid shag when you burst in-“

“Nope! No! We are NOT talking about that again! Lalalalalaaa-” Ron covered his ears with his hands desperately, as if an unpotted mandrake had materialised into the room and he was shielding himself from imminent fatality. 

“So, when _did_ you propose, Harry?” Hermione asked cutting through the sibling antics who were both now occupied in a life-or-death struggle to release the other’s hands from his ears. Graphic details of Ginny’s sex life were shouted above the pandemonium, to everyone’s horror. 

“Last Sunday. Took her to Grand Central Station in the end,” he wrapped his arm round his new fiancée, partly in affection and in part to withhold her from tackling her brother to the ground, “It’s where we first met after all.”

Ginny’s eyes sparkled and she placed an uncharacteristically soft peck to her betrothed’s cheek, “By that time I knew he was going to ask of course, but it was still beautiful. All the muggles applauded.”

“Aren’t you a both still too young to be getting hitched?” Ron crossed his arms and his stern voice spoke not of his lifelong friendship to Harry but now as a big brother to Gin. 

“To me it feels like I’ve been waiting whole lifetimes for this moment,” he wrapped his arms tighter around the redhead and briefly buried his nose in her hair, inhaling “I knew as soon as I smelled my amortentia in sixth year, of course. Treacle tart and honeysuckle… It was her. It was always her for me.”

Both their eyes misted, and Hermione was struck anew by how in love who two friends had become. No wonder Gin had been so sentimental on their last brunch date. She was smitten. 

“Have you set a date yet?” Lavender asked somewhat timidly. Apparently, the past five minutes of sibling antics had put her off and Hermione didn’t wholly blame her. 

“We’re hoping for a Christmas wedding. It was always a special time of year for me, getting to be with the Weasleys. First time in my life I felt like I was part of a real family. And now I’ll get to make it official.”

“You were always a part of the family, don’t be silly,” Ginny said, giving him one final squeeze before making her way back to the couch. “Now can we please get on with this movie night. Some of us have quidditch training at dawn. I’ve been patient enough.”

“No, you haven’t,” Harry and Hermione both snorted. 

They all eventually settled into comfortable positions on the austere antique furniture as Harry slid the video into the VHS and then snuggled up to Ginny on the couch beside her. 

“What are we watching anyway?” she asked. 

“Sleepless in Seattle”

Hermione smirked. 

Harry had always been a softie at heart.

It wasn’t till Tom Hanks took Meg Ryan’s hand atop the Empire State Building when Hermione looked round to her friends all enraptured by the screen - Their faces were lit by the artificial TV light, flickering images reflected in their pupils. Harry was close to tears because of course he was -That Hermione was startled out of the easy atmosphere by the reality of the situation she found herself in. 

Her ex and his new girlfriend sat to her right, paying more attention to each other than the flick. The soon to be wed couple were snuggled up on her left, completely besotted. And then there was herself, chocolate frog in hand, sitting between them all with only the accursed voice of insecurity as her sole companion amongst the happy couples. 

_Don’t forget. Nobody is waiting on you._

_You are all alone._

She tucked her knees closer to herself and hugged them tightly as the end credits rolled.

  


* * *

  
_January 14th, 2000_

By 7:14 AM the next day, Hermione was already buzzing from her third cup of coffee. She’d anticipated the weariness. Last night’s gathering hadn’t concluded till well past midnight as Ginny continued to gush about the engagement and ask her to be the bridesmaid of honour. 

She had accepted immediately, of course. Because despite all those gloomy sentiments that seemed to hang above her like a rain cloud these days, nothing could dampen the genuine thrill for her two best friends getting hitched. They were probably the only couple she could describe as destined for each other without gagging at the sappiness of that phrase. 

And in Ginny’s own words, _“What better choice for my maid of honour than the witch who plans for exam season five months in advance…”_

Now with the added responsibility of wedding planning, along with studying law, interning five days a week and setting up her flat – Hermione felt that maybe she had overreacted about asking for Malfoy’s help. Maybe this would be a good thing. 

She readjusted her grip on the stack of notes designated for today’s meeting with him. Taking a sip of the muggle coffee she had brewed at home from the large carry-on cup as she headed down the winding streets to the office. 

With barely a foot through the door she almost stumbled head on into the back of another person. It was a man leaning casually against the front desk talking to Claire. And he grinned when he saw her. 

Matthew Flannery. 

From just a few passing conversations, she knew that he worked in accounts. And that he has a penchant for expensive wines. Fancying himself as a bit of a connoisseur she suspected. But other than that, she didn’t quite know what to make of the wizard yet. Everyone else in the office was pretty much an open book. 

Mr. Wrightwise appreciated honesty and people who offered opinions. And Mr. Bancroft, a patent attorney for the firm, never hesitated in offering those opinions, seldom needing a prompt to do so. There was Mrs. Massey was an impressive lawyer in her own right but had a snippy, no funny business attitude. Nettie Thorne, the paralegal an office down from her, who would take any opportunity to talk about her grandkids. And then there was Duncan? Darrin? …Maybe David. The file clerk from downstairs who she barely saw leave his office but from the looks of it had an impressive collection of paper weights atop his desk. And Hermione knew from day one to keep all personal details about her social life under wraps lest Claire O’Connell, the front desk secretary, threatened to set her up on a blind date as she was often want to do so. 

But Matthew? His character was still undetermined. 

If she had estimate his age, she would hazard a guess that he was at least seven years her senior. Still young looking but with a broadness about him that indicated maturity. And he had stubble. A lot of stubble. Prickly looking hair that crept down his neck past the shirt collar.

He certainly was eager. The man was currently extending a takeaway coffee cup out to her and wouldn’t take her polite response that she had already bought one with her as a rejection.

“I got it from _The Daily Grind_. You know the shop outside the muggle entrance to the Leaky?”

Her brows shot up in surprise, “You went outside Diagon to get coffee?” 

“Claire mentioned that you prefer muggle blends because they’re smoother. You’re right by the way,” he said before sipping from his own cup. 

Hmm. 

And he was thoughtful too. Overtly so.. 

“Thank you, Flannery, but you needn’t have gone to the trouble on my part to- “

“No trouble,” he sent an affable smile and wink her way which Claire did not miss, her eyes widening greedily. “And you can call me Matthew, by the way.” 

Christ, that was the last thing she needed. A new office flirtation making the rounds. 

The coffee cup was again extended out to her and in the interest of being congenial she rested her stack of paperwork and books to her hips with one hand before accepting the cup. “Thank you then… Matthew.” 

She made sure to skirt around him quickly before making a dash to her workspace. Slamming down her personal belongings on the desk with a dramatic thump. A lengthy sigh escaped her lungs as she threw off her coat with a little more attitude than necessary. And she pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment to collect herself.

“Well good morning to you too,” came an all too familiar drawl from behind her. 

She gave a startled yelp. 

Malfoy was sitting in a guest chair, partially concealed behind the office partition, so she hadn’t noticed his presence as she fled into the room. 

“Gods, would you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?” He offered innocently. His lips twitching into the makings of that smug grin that always had her hand longing to perform a repeat of the great slapping incident circa 1993. 

She flapped her hands uselessly about her instead, “Showing up unexpectedly. Invading people’s personal spaces. You could have had the decency to at least announce yourself. I don’t know, Jesus, Malfoy just try making your existence known next time you decide to grace anyone with your presence. You nearly put my heart out.”

“Oh? But I believe I did announce my presence. Just now in fact. Besides, you said to meet Friday. I didn’t think I’d need to owl in advance, I thought you’d be expecting me.”

She glared at him. 

He was of course, correct, but did he have to be here so bloody early?

And dressed so immaculate. Yet again. She wanted to throw her hands up in frustration.

He sat sophisticatedly on the bulk standard office furniture as if it were his personal throne. In a full suit. Matching silver tie and cufflinks. Not a crease or stain to be seen over all that fabric. 

And his hair. Well, it was neatly coifed as always. Painstakingly arranged no doubt. She wondered idly how long he spent in the bathroom each morning preening over himself. 

Meanwhile she probably had all the appearance of a stray kneazle. Her ensemble was rushed in her mad dash out the house this morning. Not even bothering to brush her hair, instead throwing it up into a haphazard bun that bobbled atop her head if she made any sudden movements. 

Her eyes fell to his lap abruptly, where a book was laid open.

“What’s that?”

Knowing damn well that it was-

“I believe it’s your copy of a _Legislative Guide to House Elf Ownership._ ” He said, turning back the pages to look at the cover. She knew from that sly grin alone he had been reading the copious amount of notes scrawled in the margin she’d written during her S.P.E.W days. All the self-righteous and indignant horror of elves being likened to household possessions made plain in her hurried script. 

“Needed something to occupy myself while I waited but this was hardly stimulating. Tell me Granger, do you ever take a break from your crusade of rescuing the damned and downtrodden? Because your choices in literature suggest not.”

She took a steadying breath, to collect herself.

“Yes, actually. Occasionally I’ll take a break to help conceited, entitled aristocrats with too much free time on their hands.” She simpered sweetly before snatching the book from his clasp to put it back to its rightful place on the bookshelf. 

Turning back to her desk to begin what would probably be the longest meeting with a client in her life, she spotted the next surprise fate had in store for her today.

A teacup. 

An exquisite fine china teacup with a simple blue and white pattern of flowers painted on the rim of the cup and saucer; was placed next to her container of quills and ink. The contents of it filled to the brim with murky brown liquid. Steam curling and rising up to her nostrils. 

She wrinkled her nose. This was clearly another prime example of terrible wizarding coffee set before her. She could tell just by smelling the burnt aroma alone that the brew would be exceedingly bitter. 

“Is this yours?” 

“I bought it for you actually. Seeing as you like that insipid swill so much,” he eyed the two other coffees she’d placed on the desk prior, “But I see I may have been a tad presumptuous in fetching it for you. Late night Granger?”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

Draco Malfoy does not fetch people coffee. He absolutely does not do anything for other people without expecting something in return or Merlin forbid, out of the goodness of his heart. Did he even have one of those?

She turned round to glare at him. 

“What is this?” she accused. 

“Come now Granger, weren’t you taught any manners in that muggle upbringing of yours? A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

She crossed her arms, unimpressed.

“Are you trying to get out of helping me with this case by playing nice?”

He blanched. 

“Am I not allowed to express my gratitude for the witch helping me escape an arranged marriage? It was a simple courtesy, don’t make it weird-”

“But this _is_ weird, Malfoy. You can’t expect me to believe you did this merely out of politeness…”

He scoffed crossly, “Slytherins aren’t always plotting our next diabolical scheme, I’ll have you know. I was just trying to be… _nice_. Seeing as we’re going to be spending so much time together.” 

“Well don’t. It’s weird… coming from you.”

He rolled his eyes, “Noted. I’ll be sure to limit our interactions to sarcastic remarks and thinly veiled insults for all future exchanges.”

She snorted, “You have never ‘thinly veiled’ an insult in your entire life.”

She shook her head and sat down at her desk, arranging her notes, “So, shall we begin?”

  


* * *

  
_Two coffees consumed and one hundred and thirty-six minutes later…_

“Read through the clauses again?”

“Again? We’ve been over this a million times already.”

“And we’ll go over it a million times more if it means we can find just one flaw in the fine print. It’s a simple matter of establishing the legal intent of this contract goes against both your and Astoria’s right to freedom of choice. Neither of you were properly disclosed of the arrangement and neither of you are able to supersede the contract till Astoria is of inheriting age. Which should make things easier in the Wizengamot to prove foul-play on your parent’s part.”

“Yes, so you’ve been saying,” Malfoy rubbed his forehead as though he were physically pained, “And will you please stop pacing, you’re going to make me go fucking spare.”

She huffed and plonked back down to her chair. 

“Language, Malfoy. This is a work environment.” He rolled his eyes and Hermione felt herself fidget in her seat, impatient to continue, “Go on. Read it again.”

He held up his marriage contract and began reading in the dull, monotonous tone that most people adopt when forced to recite legal verbiage,

_“Be it known, this marital agreement, forged by the esteemed families of Malfoy and Greengrass, is to be entered upon the 18th of September…”_

“Hmm.”

He paused and glanced up at her with a palpable look of irritation.

_“What?”_

“Nothing. It’s just that your wedding day is the day before my birthday.”

He scoffed, “I’ll be sure to send you a card then, that is if I’m not already galivanting off to the Bahamas on my honeymoon.”

“Sorry, please continue.”

He glowered at her for a moment longer before continuing.

_“…the 18th of September, 2000, by and between: First Party: Draco Malfoy residing at Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire and, Second Party: Astoria Greengrass residing at Greengrass Estate, Kent, each of whom may be referred to individually as ‘party’ and collectively as ‘parties,’ blah blah blah,"_

“Don’t ‘blah blah blah’ this, read it in full.”

“You’ve heard it all before, Granger.”

She glared at him and he glared right back. 

But she would not be discouraged. If the past few hours alone with Malfoy had taught her anything it was to not back down from any of his intimidation tactics. She leaned back in her chair, not breaking eye contact and clasped her hands together. Waiting for him to be the first to crack under her scrutiny.

He eventually exhaled and continued.

_“Whereas the parties are intended to marry under the Pureblood Conjugal Act of 1691. And follow the customs of their forebears by producing an heir within the first three years of their marriage…”_

Hermione uncrossed one leg and put it over the other.

_“…Whereas, the parties of this document will come into force upon the solemnisation of their marriage; and Whereas, the parties entering the agreement will inherit full ownership and division of property between the Greengrass and Malfoy estates, on the condition that an heir is produced…”_

She absentmindedly began to tap her foot. 

_“…Whereas, termination of the contract due to irreconcilable difference between either or both parties shall not be granted till, when and if, an heir is produced and the successor reaches an heritable age to certify the continuation of the Malfoy and Greengrass family lines…”_

Her knee bobbed back and forth underneath the table, causing the furniture to creak innocuously. 

_“…Whereas, this contract is magically binding by the willing intermingling of blood from parentages of both families. And may not be cancelled lest there is a material breach performed by either parties, or in the event..._ Oh for the love of all the Gods, Granger would you stop fidgeting!”

Hermione leapt up from her chair began to pace again, causing a string of expletives to be muttered under Malfoy’s breath. 

“What’s stopping you from simply not turning up on the wedding day?”

“What?”

“Why can’t you just… not show up. Leave the country, go into hiding. At least till the date surpasses. Wouldn’t that make this whole thing null and void?”

Malfoy deflated and rubbed the back of his neck, “It’s not that simple. There doesn’t have to be any sort of ceremony for the union to take place, though you can be sure that my Mother will have her sights set on arranging this wedding to be the greatest society event of this decade. This…” he held up the contract in distaste, “…is more than just a piece of paper with terms and conditions. It’s a magically binding contract. Astoria and I won’t even need to be in the same room for it to come into effect. When the date arrives, it will be as if these words are engraved to our skin. It all comes down to the unique pact our parents made. It’s a matter of blood.”

“Isn’t it always with you people,” she grumbled under her breath.

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unbeknownst to Hermione who continued pacing about the room. 

“And what if you and Astoria choose to not raise an heir? What if you just wait it out for the first three years of your marriage? If that obligation wasn’t met wouldn’t that make the contract invalid too? They can hardly enforce you to procreate against your will.”

“It would mean that both of us would surely lose our inheritance…” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. _Well, God forbid you lose that._

“…But it would be worse for Astoria, to not produce an heir is seen as the fault of the witch, she would be shunned by her family and our society at large. Not to mention my parents would have valid grounds to sue her for the contract breach-”

Hermione halted in her pacing and spun round to face Malfoy.

“That… is so incredibly chauvinistic I don’t even know where to begin.”

“It’s perfectly legal in our world to-“

“Well, the laws need to bloody change then! What is this, Medieval times? Has Marie Antionette still not consummated the royal marriage bed?”

“…Marie who?”

“-Well, forgive me for waking up and thinking that we are living in the twenty first century! Clearly ever since the sodding statute of secrecy was passed, the wizarding world decided to not only relinquish all muggle relations but remain stuck in the same antiquated, misogynistic mindsets of the 1600s that saw women as nothing of value to society other than their anatomical capabilities-“

“I haven’t got a blasted clue what you’re on about right now-“

“Witches, Malfoy. Witches. What if Astoria was unable to have children? Or didn’t want to have any for that matter? What if you were sterile…” Malfoy made a choking noise at the back of his throat, as if to strongly disagree with that notion, “…These expectations are just beyond discriminatory to women… and yet as you say, it’s all fine and dandy according to the Pureblood elites, to just enable blatantly sexist rulings like this to exist as if it doesn’t devalue our basic human right to autonomy and equate women as nothing more than domesticated, childrearing servants.” Hermione fell back into her chair, heaving as though she’d run and marathon, “The Wizengamot needs a serious overhaul if laws like this are still in practice.”

“I won’t disagree with you there, Granger. But Merlin, can we get back on topic please? How many coffees have you had today?”

“Five. But I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

“Well, I strongly recommend you forgo any more of caffeine lest your head explodes.”

“Ha-ha,” she shot him a quick scowl. Then leaned back in her chair as her eyes swam over her the scrambled notes she’d written in the past two hours. Raising two fingers to massage her temple. 

“What we really should be doing is drafting a class action lawsuit…”

Malfoy snorted, “We? I think you’ve forgotten who is working for who in this situation, Granger-“

She ignored him and pressed on. 

“Think about it. No one in the Wizengamot is going waste their time listening to some legally precarious argument about one wizard forced into an arranged marriage against his will. Half the members are Pureblood. It’s not in their interest to change laws that benefit them and their warped worldview to sustain pure blood lines. What we need to do is demonstrate that the basis of contracts like this one, are a fundamental breach of any one person’s civic rights. And appeal to have them banned entirely.”

Malfoy moaned in frustration, “Must you be so bloody noble about everything. Is it not enough to just help one person, that you have to go off campaigning for the rights of all wizardkind?”

“This isn’t right, Malfoy. Surely you can see that.”

“Of course, I can. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. But the matter remains that you are just one witch. Pre-law and interning as a lowly law clerk, I might add and yet already you are planning to tear down the fabric of our world with a class action,” he sank dejectedly in his seat, “And how long will something like that take may I ask? Shall you manage to destroy the patriarchy before or after my upcoming vows?”

“Perhaps I am being a tad too ambitious,” she conceded with a frustrated sigh. 

God, she hated he was right about that. 

She wasn’t used to this. Having a conversational partner that actually challenged her intellectual arguments. She was used to seeing Harry and Ron’s eyes glaze over whenever she talked about all the inequalities of the wizarding world. But Malfoy? He was engaging with her. Picking out the weaknesses in her reasoning. And finding openings he could launch a counterargument with. A small part of her thrilled at the experience of it. 

For the past few hours in his company, they’d actually managed to engage in moderately civil discussion about the case. They’d yet to agree on anything and Malfoy was as reluctant as ever to collaborate with her. But still, it oddly felt like progress to her. 

She eyed the contract in his hand and then flickered back to his gaze. 

And recognised instantly the gleam in his eye then. The smirk and silent query he proffered. 

_Do I win this round?_

She gave a curt nod. 

“Read on, then.” 

_Yes, you do. For now._

  


* * *

  
_Two hundred and eighty-three minutes and counting…_

The time since their last discussion stretched on and on. The only interlude between the silence was the flipping of pages and the occasional background noise of office chitchat rising down the hall. She had suggested that they read through some texts on contract law as a starting point as they were getting nowhere trying to scrutinize the marriage agreement word by word. And they’d both been working silently ever since. 

Hermione felt strangely comfortable in the quiet. The scratching of Malfoy’s quill on the page, as he took notes, was a promising sign. He seemed to be completely engrossed with his research. Barely taking breaks or getting up to stretch like she did in between dense and lengthy chapters. 

She watched him for a moment with her head peeking out from the book she held in front of her. His fringe was falling over his face and his long, deft fingers gripped the quill confidently as he made leisurely strokes on the page…

“What is it, Granger?”

She jumped and tried to smother a startled squeak with a cough.

He’d caught her watching him and the amused smirk he wore made a blush stain her cheeks. 

She cleared her throat.

“Found anything?”

He shook his head resignedly. But that quill that kept moving up and down the page suggested otherwise...

“What are you writing then?”

He held the paper closer to his chest, “nothing of importance.”

Hermione sneakily withdrew her wand and wordlessly _accio-ed_ the parchment from his grasp.

“Dammit Granger, I’m not finished-“

“Oh.”

He hadn’t been taking notes at all. 

He’d been drawing her, though it was not a kind likeness. 

She was as she is now, sitting at a desk surrounded by books and paperwork. And the messy bun she’d wore today was illustrated as a bird’s nest with feathers poking out the sides. Small birds were fluttering around her ears, taking strands of her curls and pulling them taut to the cartoon Hermione’s noticeable irritation, who tried batting them away in vain. 

Her lip twitched as she remembered vaguely the doodles he’d drawn back in school. In between the occasional sketch of Harry being knocked off his broom in attempt to psyche him out before the next big quidditch match or the _Potter Stinks_ Badges, that she’d heard Malfoy boast of crafting himself during Potions – Hermione was often his other target.

A scrunched-up wad of paper thrown her way during class was a regular occurrence throughout the years. She’d ignore him for the most part but occasionally she would open the wad of paper later on back in her dorm to find crude sketches of herself either being entangled in her own mass of hair or being eaten alive by a copy of _The Monster Book of Monsters._

She wanted to reprimand him for this. It was immature and a waste of time. But she couldn’t stifle the giggle that was trying to escape her throat. 

“Your penmanship hasn’t improved much,” she mused, “And my hair is not that frizzy now that it’s grown out.”

He snatched the paper back from her hand and continued to add ringlet after ringlet to the monstrosity of a mane he had given her, “It’s called a caricature for a reason, Granger. I only exaggerate the most prominent features. And your hair is certainly one of them.”

She snatched the paper back out of his grasp and pointed her wand towards him to halt his protests, “Don’t make me dock points from Slytherin, Malfoy," she sneered. "Get back to work.”

He grumbled and slumped back in his chair. Crossing his arms petulantly and scowling at the small print in one of the books laid open on his lap. 

She rolled her eyes. 

_Melodramatic as ever._

  


* * *

  


_An agonising amount of time later that could either be no more than two hours or several eternities…_

Hermione was absentmindedly sucking on the end of quill. She’d hit a mental roadblock for the day it seemed. The words on the page came in one ear and out the other. Her vision bleareyed. 

Malfoy had disappeared for a short time at lunch and then returned without a word to her. He just read the books methodically, front to back, occasionally jotting down a note here or there. It was mid-afternoon now and the caffeine in her system had well and truly run its course. She unsuccessfully supressed another yawn and schooled her attention back to the page. 

Biting down on the quill as she read the words 'onus of proof' for the sixth time in a row.

“That’s a disgusting habit,” Malfoy said without looking up from the hardback. 

She popped the quill out of her mouth, bemused.

“What is?”

He flickered his eyes up to her momentarily, looking at a point beyond her shoulder, “ _Sucking_ on quills. Why don’t you just sniff a fwooper’s arsehole while you’re at it?”

She suppressed a grin and levelled her eyes at him, forcing him to eventually succumb to her immovable stare. Taking the quill in hand, she teased the tip against her lips. Then took one long, sloppy drag of her tongue up the length of the feather tip before she continued sucking on the quill not breaking eye contact all the while. 

Malfoy groaned in disgust. Slamming the book shut and shifting his legs uncomfortably in his chair. 

“You’re Filthy,” he muttered crossly, shaking his head. 

She smiled innocently at him. 

It felt good to be the one irritating him for a change. So often she was the butt of the joke when Malfoy was concerned. He was simply getting a taste of his own bitter potion right now. And what made it better was the fact that he had to be here, clearly against his better wishes. She could have fun with this...

_No. Don’t sink to his level, Hermione. You’re a professional, now._

She stood up from her desk. 

“I think I need another break. Might grab a coffee? Do you want anything?”

He scrunched his brow, “I did put a warming charm on that coffee I bought you, you know.”

She glanced over to the dainty chinaware teacup with that horrid brown liquid still steaming as if it been made moments before, on the corner of her desk. 

She wrinkled her nose, “I think I’ll pass.”

He looked mildly affronted, “That is elf made coffee I’ll have you know. Much better than the dreg they make down at Fortesque’s…”

Her voice hardened, “Then I’ll definitely pass.” 

He rolled his eyes, “What is it with you and those daft creatures. Last time I checked house elves actually want to be enslaved. Enjoy it, in fact.”

“No one wants to be a slave!” she smacked the book she was holding down onto the table making them both jump at the impact, “And as I remember, there was an ex-house elf of yours once upon a time that proved as much.”

“Dobby was an outlier,” he said inattentively, picking off invisible dust on his sleeve, “There are oddballs in every race.” 

Hermione saw red. 

She choked back on all the words she could possibly scream at him at the moment. Phrases like ‘Bigoted, elitist scumbag’ and ‘Prat of the century’ were particularly hard to supress. But even those insults didn’t quite hit the mark. 

She took a steadying breath.

“Well, if ever you’re ever forced into eternal servitude, we’ll see how much you enjoy it hmm?” her tone was like venom, “You try living a life without choice and see how you like.”

His brows rose and mouth turned to a grim line at that. But Hermione grabbed her purse and sped out the door. She couldn’t stay there. She couldn’t be held accountable for any hexes that left her wand in that moment. 

“Where are you going, Granger? Are we finished for the day?” he asked hopefully.

She spun round. 

“I’m going for a break like I said,” She seethed. “And you had better still be here when I return. We have things to discuss!”

And that they did. The rest of Hermione's day were spent half lecturing, half scolding Malfoy till he looked about as threatening as a mouse caught between a kneazle's talons. It wasn't till she started reciting the historical Abolition of Slavery in 1807, Muggle Britain that she called it a day and they resumed their research together in silence.

  


* * *

  


_January 15th?_

Hermione winced in pain as she woke abruptly from a deep sleep. She had a terrible crook in her neck. 

Her entire back felt stiff, now that she came to think of it. And something heavy was pressing down on her shoulder. 

Hold on. This isn’t right. 

She wasn’t nestled underneath bedsheets at home like she should be. She was sitting on carpet and leaning against two things. One was the hard wooden backing of what felt like a bookshelf. And the other was the unmistakeable solid warmth of another body pressed up against her side. 

Oh…

Oh no. 

Had they stayed the night in her office? She hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. What was the last thing they did exactly to end up in this position? 

There had been bickering and banter and the occasional theory postulated between hours of scouring legal texts. They had ended up using the whole office space to spread out their research. As the desk was too small to share and it became tedious to constantly turn a page back and forth when they sat on opposing sides.

She blinked groggily a few times before her eyes adjusted to the dim. There was barely any light in the office now. Just a faint yellow beam coming out the window from a distant streetlamp, lit the room. Illuminating the mess, they had made. Layers of fresh parchment surrounded them on the floor. Some of which were definitely crumpled beneath her legs. An open book on her lap. 

She angled her eyes downwards and saw that Malfoy had fallen asleep beside her. His head leaning on her shoulder. Face dangerously close to the soft rise and fall of her chest. And his hair brushed up against her chin, tickling her slightly. 

Jesus, Mary and Joseph how was she going to disentangle herself from this? How could she let something this even happen?

Maybe if she just slowly eased herself away. Pushed him off her and left him sleeping in the corner without a word. He’d wake up later and never know that they had… that they had did what they did. 

But the idea of accidently waking him up right now allayed her. Of him opening his eyes to see her chest… she supressed a shudder. 

She momentarily thanked her lucky stars that he did not smell anything like he did on NYE. So much for small mercies. Only the scent of his cologne overpowered her senses. That and the comforting familiarity of stationary supplies sprawled around them. 

She inhaled against her better judgement. 

Wrong fucking move. 

It was as if a final piece of a puzzle clicked into place. The strange and unfamiliar sensations she experienced around Malfoy this past week. The way her body stilled and then pulled towards him of its own accord. Ginny word’s _‘you always noticed him, Hermione.’_ It all crystalised in a matter of moments as she was swept up into a memory from the not-so-distant past.

_**“This is Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in the world. It’s rumoured to smell different to each person according to what attracts them. For example, I smell… freshly mown grass, new parchment and-”** _

_Chypre._

It was Chypre. It always had been. 

And it was the exact defining note of Malfoy’s cologne. It was unmistakeable, now that she was nestled up so close to him. How had she not recognised it sooner?

The earthy warm fragrance of chypre. Like a forest floor in early autumn. After rain when everything smelt crisper. 

She had always associated the scent with her camping trips to the Forest of Dean with her parents. But it wasn’t in her amortentia because of them or because of her days on the run with Ron and Harry. It was because of him. 

It was because of Malfoy. 

It was Draco Malfoy she had smelled in her Amortentia. 

The revelation hit her like a smack to the face and her body quaked. Causing the dozing Malfoy to rouse. 

She froze.

She heard him groggily mumbled something incoherent and watched, almost in slow motion, the moment of realisation dawn on his face. 

There was a beat of silence were they both looked at each other. About a hair’s breadth away from each other’s faces. Completely stunned. Which was just awful. It seemed to stretch on for hours. And then:

“We fell asleep.”

Well, no shit Hermione. 

But what else do you say in a situation like this? She was seriously tempted to wandlessly apparate to Argentina without another word and start a new life right about now. Or just melt into the carpet – is there a spell for that? Anything to escape this dual mortification of falling asleep on Malfoy… and being attracted to Malfoy? Loving Malfoy? 

_**‘There’s a thin line between love and hate.’** _

No no no no no nono. 

No. 

Absolutely not. 

This was not happening. 

Malfoy suddenly leapt away from her up on to his feet. He looked genuinely traumatised. Or repulsed? She couldn’t work out what that emotion was playing on his face, but there was definitely panic in there. 

“No one will ever know about this, Granger.”

She swallowed.

“No, Never-”

“If I even hear a whisper of this getting out-“

“I’ll take it to the grave.”

His eyes were wide, and he still had a frantic energy about him. He looked back to her and gave one final nod before dashing out the room. 

When she heard the clack of the door close behind him and was left alone in the office. She sat back at her desk, mind whirring. The rest of the memory of that fated day seemed to play out in her mind on repeat.

_**“May I ask your name, my dear?” Slughorn had asked her.** _

_**Hermione Granger, sir.”** _

_**“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”** _

_**"No, I don’t think so, sir. I’m a muggleborn, you see.”** _

_**She saw Malfoy lean over to Nott from the corner of her eye and whisper something, causing them both to snigger derogatorily. She watched the word ‘mudblood’ form on his lips before she turned away.** _

A single tear tracked down her face. 

Could he still… think that way about her? Is that why he left like that? Revulsion written plain on his features. 

And what an unmitigated fool she was. To be interested in a man who would probably repel at her touch. Who used to look at her as nothing more than dirt on his shoe. 

A sob escaped before she could conceal it. 

Regret didn’t even begin to cover this feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw! I have a Pinterest moodboard for this story you can look at [here.](https://www.pinterest.com.au/RavenclawRose/)
> 
> And a Tumblr you can visit [here,](https://ravenclawrose715.tumblr.com) where I mostly just overshare and fervidly ship Dramione so if that's of interest to anyone, feel free to drop by and say hey


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